


Evol lovE

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Series: A Modicum of Humanity Makes Everything Harder [15]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Continuation of my AU, F/M, Family Issues, Gen, I just know I'm going to get non-gotham people going into this, M/M, Nightmares, it's not the older Barbara Keane don't worry, less punching more talking, more to come - Freeform, so I tried to hide the Barbara/Dick tag a bit, what may constitute as ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-01-15 22:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Following the events of Reset Room, Bruce Wayne is trying his best to juggle time with his son (whose biological mother jumped ship), a budding relationship and then a long-term relationship with Silver, Dick Grayson dating the Commissioner's adopted daughter, and every still active Rogue in Gotham. The man is tired.After a blackout at a children's concert leaves Patrick and Silver missing, Bruce needs to call on some faces he'd rather not see to help bring them home safe.





	1. Prologue: Alfred Pennyworth

**Author's Note:**

> I was really adamant I was going to finish this before posting but I think that ship has sailed. I need a little outside motivation and I think the lovely fandom of Gotham still sticking with it are going to give me the kick in the pants I need to get past some of the trickier chapters.

Though he has an alarm set for precisely 5:45 AM Alfred's circadian rhythm has never allowed him to sleep until its shrill cries fill the room. He doesn't pop out of bed as fast as he used to but he also doesn't linger. The moment he hears another, less controlled shrill cry down the hall he takes in a deep breath and leaves the comfort of his bed in order to begin getting ready for the day. He has about a half hour before his services will be needed, and that's more than enough for an old military man like himself to become presentable.

It's not as if the rest of the Manor will hold itself to the same standard, but there are protocols to be followed, rules to be maintained, and he's not about to become lax just because he's not the spry young thing he used to be.

A shower, shave, and dressing later and Alfred is standing in the hall just in time to catch quite a sight as Bruce emerges from the nursery with a bubbly and most certainly wide awake infant in one arm and his other already reaching out for phantom cups of coffee. Somehow he's managed to create a bedhead so wild it puts Patrick's mass of unruly curls to shame. The Batman in all his glory; it's a miracle he's even maintaining the muscle tension to remain upright.

“Why, aren't you bright eyed, Master B,” he jokes. Bruce blinks a few times, still bleary and half functional. He has no mug to offer but Alfred accepts Patrick without hesitation when Bruce attempts to articulate the need for a hand off. “Long night, sir?”

“I apprehended Jervis Tetch at three this morning,” he rasps out. Not his ridiculous fake voice but a very real start to a nasty case of laryngitis.

“I see,” Alfred muses. “Why don't I get the young Master started on his morning routine while you attempt to get a bit more shut-eye. Can't have you falling asleep during another board meeting.”

Bruce manages something between a term of gratitude and some unprintable keen of relief and Alfred shakes his head while he watches Bruce shuffle back into his bedroom. “Your dad's going to have to learn time management one of these days,” he tells Patrick, who shoves a hand in his mouth and starts babbling. “I can't imagine where you developed this love for the early mornings considering the source material.”

Patrick, again, is not yet the conversationalist Alfred is looking for in an early morning companion, however he's much cheerier than the other options available to him in the Manor on any given day. “I suppose we should attempt to make this a bit more presentable,” he mutters as he tries to get a few fingers through Patrick's hair. “I'll need to speak with your mother about the impossible task she's left us with without bothering to offer any of the wisdom she's cultivated.”

Again, not really the conversationalist, though the squeal of unprompted laughter is charming in its own way. “No sense wasting any more time lamenting fate, young Master P,” Patrick waves one moist hand in the air and starts fussing. “Yes I know, having to be patient can be a chore. I can think of a couple other individuals that share your disdain for the practice.” He takes one last moment to glance down the hall, but he and Patrick are the only ones up and about. “Let's get you something to tide you over until breakfast is ready.”

-

The smell of freshly fried bacon and eggs always drags the other occupants out of their rooms to scavenge the food Alfred's laid out for them, and today is no exception. Under Alfred's unblinking gaze Victor Zsasz emerges from his usual den of house arrest, fills at least one plate (if not several) to the brim, and he retreats back to whatever hole he dragged himself out of with an unearned, carefree smile and a nod of thanks sent Alfred's way.

It's disappointing that he's the most polite member of the house on a good day, and on days like this-with Bruce attempting to sleep an extra hour and Richard still unseen- it's the only gratitude Alfred's going to get. Patrick certainly tries in his own way, although if he is really attempting to appear thankful Alfred could do without the enthusiasm he's injecting into this particular meal.

He sends another handful of egg flying and Alfred watches as it lands on one of the ornate rugs. “Must we, Master P?”

His next bite has a fifty percent success rate, with the other fifty percent landing in his hair and on his face. Alfred sighs and uses a rag to collect the worst of the spillage, knowing full well more will replace it before the infant has finished his breakfast.

Patrick’s enthusiastic eating makes Richard’s already pronounced, meek shuffle more obvious. The young man hardly acknowledges Alfred as he pulls out a chair to the right of Patrick’s high chair and stares out at the various serving bowls of fruit and eggs and bacon.

“Help yourself,” Alfred encourages him. “Plenty to go around, Master Grayson.”

Alfred will try. He will try and he will continue to support Bruce and his efforts to turn this Manor into some sort of wayward home for Rogues and orphaned teenagers alike, but he’s not going to literally spoon feed a teenager when he’s already having enough difficulty doing so for the actual infant in the house.

Bruce comes barreling into the room like a tidal wave, one hand still adjusting his tie and the other carrying his briefcase. Alfred nods to him and gestures to the chair opposite Richard, but Bruce waves a hand and reaches for one of the sticky rolls Alfred placed in a tidy ring on one of the larger serving platters. “I’m sorry Alfred, but I’m running late for a board meeting.” He leans over long enough to kiss one of the few clean spots remaining on the top of Patrick’s head before shoving a large bite of the roll into his mouth. “It all looks very good!” he calls over his shoulder and around the roll in his mouth. Such awful manners, who raised him?. “I’ll have some this evening.”

“Be sure to stay awake this time, sir,” Alfred calls out, chuckling when Bruce waves him off dismissively. “Looks like it’s just the three of us then.”

Richard’s chair squeals as he pushes it back from the table and leaves the room without a word and without even taking something with him to eat. Alfred sighs and shakes his head. “I’m beginning to think you’re the last civilized Wayne in the household, Master P.” The infant starts blowing a few spit bubbles and shrieks while reaching for the bowl of eggs Alfred’s been feeding him. “Yes, alright. Let’s try to get the last of this in your mouth this time.”

-

Bruce's return marks the end of the workday for some, but for the Wayne household the so-called real work is just beginning. He deposits his briefcase and overcoat into Alfred's waiting arms, and Alfred follows along as Bruce starts making his way for the Batcave.

“I trust you were able to stave off sleep during the meeting today, Master B.”

He meant it in jest, but Bruce winces, hissing out a distressed breath before admitting, “not exactly.”

“I'll bet the board was delighted, sir.”

“It was informal,” Bruce explains. “For the new childcare program. They wanted parental input.” He reaches for the hidden switch and stands back from the entrance while it swings open. “I may have actually endeared myself to some of the other parents in the meeting.”

“One would hope, sir.” Alfred sighs. “I do have a few other items to discuss before you start hopping about rooftops.”

“Patrick?” Bruce guesses, but he's incorrect, because the boy is currently settled into his second nap of the day.

“Nothing to report,” Alfred says. “No, I'm afraid my concerns lie with the other young man currently occupying space in this Manor.”

“Richard,” Bruce says, nodding. “What have you noticed?”

“I'm more focused on what I haven't noticed, sir, namely a lack of improvement on his demeanor.”

Bruce stops to ponder and Alfred uses the time to make sure the  _ third _ young man in his care is showing signs of improvement, which at least on the surface seems true enough. There's a weight Bruce won't stop carrying in his shoulders, but the strain around his eyes is less prominent, as is the jittery edge of fear. He's not alright, but he's better, and Alfred is all for small victories.

“You think he needs something.”

Although the length of time it took his bright mind to come up with that is a concern on its own. He needs to allot a bit more time for sleep. “I think we've reached the point where a lack of structure is no longer doing him any favors, Master Bruce. No one's trying to put the boy's grief on a timeline.”

“But you think he'd benefit from getting out of the Manor.”

“Precisely.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully. “We can suggest he try returning to school. If he's not ready to face his peers there's several private schools in the area.”

“I think some familiar faces would do him good, sir, if he's willing.”

“I'd like to be there to discuss it with him,” Bruce says. “I'd suggest we do it now, but there's already been some activity in Amusement Mile.”

“Right then, off you go, sir. Tell Commissioner Gordon hello from me.” Alfred waves Bruce off towards his armor. “I'll be on the monitors should you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says, clasping a hand on Alfred's arm.

“No thanks necessary, sir,” though he does appreciate it all the same. Alfred moves past Bruce so he can prepare, and so he can turn up the baby monitor for Patrick's room should the boy decide to end his evening nap earlier than scheduled.

-

Alfred uses the rear view mirror to look at the three boys in the back seat of the car. Richard's more focused on looking out the passenger side window, but Bruce is doing a stand up job of entertaining Patrick in the center. The boy's picked up a habit of offering his toys to whoever is the closest, and Bruce accepts them with little nods of thanks, only to place them down by Patrick's feet. Bruce chuckles lightly at the bewildered, wide eyed look the boy gives the toys every time, and then the cycle repeats itself.

“If only the rest of you were as easily entertained,” Alfred comments. He waits until they're at a stop light to look back. “Taking him into daycare this time, sir?”

“He could use some mental stimulation from his peers,” Bruce says. He uses the bulky side of the car seat to hide his face from Patrick, and pops out with exaggerated surprise when Patrick goes looking for him. The boy squeals with delight and Bruce does it again.

It's heartwarming, really, to see him unwind for just a little, even if it's over far too quickly. Alfred pulls up to the front of Wayne Enterprises and parks so he can help extract Patrick from the car and send Bruce off with the diaper bag on one shoulder and Patrick on his other hip. He waves in their direction once he's reached the doors, and then Alfred is left with Mr Moody in the back and his own thoughts.

“Off to the academy?” Alfred asks. Richard lifts his head long enough to give a half-hearted nod and returns it to the window. He waits until they're on the main road again before pressing further. “Master Grayson, I'm getting the distinct impression you're not enthused about your destination.”

“It's not that,” he sighs, voice a bit rusty. Come to think of it, he hasn't heard a peep from him since they all discussed schools and routine, and he'd hardly talked then either. “Okay, I guess it's sort of that.”

“Not quite ready to return?” he asks, and he's met with another shrug. “No one's forcing you, Master Grayson.”

“It's just,” he sits up properly this time and leans back until his head is against the seat. “I never went that regularly.” He laughs. “Holy cow, one year I think I was gone more than I went.”

“Circus a bit demanding?”

“Yeah,” he sighs wistfully. “But my mom, well, she went over my school work with me so I didn't fall behind. And then we'd sometimes to quizzes while I was on the tightrope or trapeze.”

“You miss the circus.”

“I miss my parents.”

“I had assumed that goes without saying, sir.” Richard nods and hugs his arms around his torso. “If a bit of familiarity would help we can find a troupe for you to practice with.”

“It wouldn't be the same.” Nothing ever will be, but Alfred doesn't tell him that. He already knows. “I don't think I'm ready for school.”

“Shall I take you home, then?” Richard goes a long time without answering, long enough for Alfred to worry. He finds the nearest open space on the side of the road and parks so he can turn around properly. There's a lot of conflict in the boy's eyes. “Richard?”

“Um, I think,” he sits up straighter, more confident, “I'd like to go somewhere else.”

“Alright,” Alfred agrees, if a bit hesitant. “Any place you have in mind, Master Grayson?”

He picks at the seam of his jeans, scraping dull nails over the thick fold of denim. “Can I go to Bruce's office? Or, the building I guess.”

“If Master B is alright with it I imagine you can do whatever you like considering he owns the company.” He picks up his communicator and gives it a quick tap to get Bruce's attention. “If not, I'm sure you could find a nice alcove to hide away in. Damn place is big enough to get lost in without trying. You're livel to get lost for weeks if you take a wrong turn.”

-

“I think you should leave Gotham,” Bruce says to Richard, just as blunt and tactless as ever. Alfred braces for anything, but the meek confusion on Richard's face is manageable with just a bit of clarification. “We've been talking, Alfred and I, and last night Silver agreed-” aha, late meeting indeed- “that you don't look happy. They you haven't in a long while, and maybe a chance of scenery could help that.”

“Oh,” Richard curls up around the cocoa Alfred handed him before this little meeting began. He watches the steam rise from the cup when he talks. “Did you leave?”

“I did,” Bruce says. “Not right away, and not for all that long, but being here,” he gets a faraway look. “You see things that make you remember, or hear their voices in a crowd, or the right smell puts you back there-” Alfred's beginning to worry Bruce's put himself back in the alley just by talking this way- “there's nothing wrong with wanting to run from it for a little so you can think.”

“Misters Nygma and Cobblepot already agreed,” Alfred adds. “The two could use some company, and I'm sure Hyde Park will thank you for focusing their efforts away from terrorizing their neighbors.”

Alfred observed Nygma and Richard tinkering around in the Batcave to know there's an odd friendship between the two; Richard is an intelligent, inquisitive teenager, and Nygma certainly loves a rapt audience. Throw in a few childish but cerebral pranks and it's a friendship made in... well it's certainly not heaven based but there's a certain divine influence at play. He can't imagine an earthly influence shoving the two together in an amicable fashion.

Richard looks up, blinks. “I thought they retired.”

“There's plenty of legal ways to terrorize someone,” Bruce says, chuckling darkly. “We're not forcing you. And even if you do go you can come back early. Anytime.”

“Anytime,” Richard repeats softly. “Alright,” he says with more confidence, “okay. So uh, holy cow, I don't think I have a passport?”

-

“Have you heard anything?” Bruce asks. He's bearing the weight of Patrick while they wait at the private airstrip, letting him reach up to touch the pristine sides of a few of the smaller planes in the hangar.

Alfred pulls out his phone and rereads the message Nygma sent him a few hours prior with a few embellishments (removal of riddles) to save time. “Dick shall be arriving half past noon.”

“Dick?”

“It's a bit dated, although not an uncommon nickname for Richard.” Although he's sure Bruce knew that. “Could be a good sign, Master B.”

“Could be,” Bruce parrots. He shushes Patrick when he fusses, demanding he be allowed to keep smearing fingerprints across the fuselage. “That one isn't even ours, Patrick.”

Alfred chuckles under his breath; of Bruce's many talents talking to young children is one he has yet to master. He turns in time to catch the tail end of Richard's landing, watching the private jet come hurtling towards the open hanger, and roaring to a safe and gentle stop well beyond what constitutes a pleasant walking distance. Alfred waves the two Wayne boys towards the limo and drives along the service road running parallel to the runway until they're close enough to see Richard descending the steps with a bag over his shoulder and another trailing behind him.

There's a marked difference, instantly recognizable, but also subtle when one doesn't know what to look for. He's lighter on his feet. A proper acrobat. Richard says something the pilot must find humorous, laughs as he gets a playful clap to the back, and finally waves down at the car once he realizes he's being watched. He bounds down to meet them, and the three occupants of the car all clamber out to exchange proper greetings.

“You're looking well, Master Grayson,” Alfred says as he takes his luggage so it can be placed in the trunk.

“You were right,” he tells Bruce. “It's,” he tips his head to the side, “better. I feel better.”

“We're glad to hear it,” Bruce says. Patrick begins squirming in his arms and reaching out for Richard, so Bruce sets him on the ground so the boy can show off his recently acquired walking skills. “I think you grew.”

“Not as much as him!” Richard laughs, crouching low and holding out his arms so Patrick can flop into them. He picks up the toddler and stands in one fluid motion, unhindered. He really does hold himself more comfortably now. “I missed you,” he coos at Patrick, but it's clearly meant for all of them, “but it was a good trip.”

“I do hope you didn't burn the neighborhood to the ground, Master Grayson.”

“What did Oswald tell you!” Richard squeaks. “It, there wasn't, holy crap,” he laughs, “it wasn't a fire. Nothing burned.”

“He's still demanding I fund the replacement of their wallpaper,” Bruce teases. Richard hides his blush behind Patrick's wild hair. “I understand you're being called Dick now.”

“Well, my dad's the one that started it, but, yeah. I think I prefer it over Richard.”

Alfred nods. “If it's all the same to you I believe I'll be sticking with Master Grayson, though I'm sure teenage senses of humor would beg otherwise.”

“That's fine,” Richard, or Dick as he's designated himself, agrees. Alfred ignores the fact that Bruce, certainly  _ not _ a teenager, is smirking just as much as Dick at the prospect.

“What helped the most?” Bruce asks as he takes back Patrick. “I can't imagine inciting Oswald's wrath had the healing properties we had in mind.”

“I think I needed to keep busy,” Dick says. “Like,  _ actually _ busy.”

“I'm sure your inevitable school work will help with that,” Alfred says. He holds the door open do Bruce can strap Patrick in and climb into his seat.

“Maybe,” Dick says, “but I think busy  _ helping _ , well, helps.”

“Commissioner Gordon is firm on his rule about your age,” Bruce says from inside the car. He's leaning half out the window. Really, has he forgotten everything he's been taught? “But he didn't say anything about help from inside the Batcave.”


	2. Chapter 1: Bruce

Bruce looks at himself in the bathroom mirror as he ties his tie in a Windsor knot. He's used just a touch of pomade to keep his hair combed back and shaved away his stubble, although he's irritated by the nick he gave himself on his left cheek. It's hardly noticeable, but photographers always seem to find his imperfections and make them the center of the photo, especially when he's a guest at a party he's not throwing.

It doesn't help that he's dating the person that  _ is _ throwing the party, at least indirectly. It counts when Silver is the one to do all the actual planning. It's her party as much as it's the museum's, and she'll be a focal point for the press, which means that he'll be a focal point for his proximity.

He doesn't mind, it cultivates the image he needs to keep his extracurriculars secret, but sometimes he just wants to be Bruce Wayne, happenstance billionaire rather than billionaire playboy. He was kind of hoping Patrick's existence would have helped with that more than it has.

The door to his bedroom creaks open and Bruce listens to the pitter-patter of small feet as Patrick tears through his room. He uses his foot to push the door open and alert his son of his whereabouts, and the boy careens over to lean against his legs. “Dad, dad dad dad-”

“One second,” he pushes the knot to his throat and examines his appearance one last time before bending over and picking up Patrick. He's, oh, well he's brought a drawing with him and it's very endearing, but someone let him get ahold of the markers and some of the color on his hands is still wet enough to transfer onto Bruce's suit coat. Good thing he has multiple suits. “Is that for me?”

“Silver,” Patrick corrects him, and he shoves what could be a flower or maybe some sort of animal into Bruce's hand. “I made it.”

“I'll be sure to give it to her tonight.”

Patrick regales him with his expert drawing process while lying in the middle of Bruce's bed, and Bruce interjects with plenty of encouraging sounds and remarks while he surveys the damage to his suit and finds another to wear for the evening. He's just finished retucking in his shirt when Dick joins them. “Wondered where you got to, Pat.”

“I've been instructed to give Silver a drawing,” Bruce says, smiling. Patrick holds it up proudly for Dick to see, hopping unevenly on the soft surface until Dick picks him up and play tackles him back onto the bed. Patrick squeals with delight, and Bruce saves the drawing from getting damaged while Patrick 'pins’ Dick to the bed. “Thank you for watching him. He's a bit more active than Alfred's prepared to handle these days.”

“Not a problem. Babs has a big final paper to finish. She said I'd distract her.” He holds onto Patrick's hands to help him maintain his balance as his small feet dig into Dick's stomach. His words are punctuated with gusts of air as Patrick steps on him. “And her dad doesn't like me anymore.”

“The Commissioner doesn't hate you,” Bruce assures Dick, although for claiming he's a hated figure he doesn't appear concerned. “If he did you wouldn't be dating his daughter.”

“I don't know,” Dick says wistfully, “she's awful stubborn when she wants something. Geez Pat you're going to make me puke.” He gently tosses the boy onto the bed and sits up just in time to be climbed onto. “I think this one might belong in a zoo.”

Patrick roars, not the animal he's acting like but it's amusing all the same. Bruce shakes his head fondly and ruffles Patrick's curls. “If I don't leave soon Silver's going to worry I went on patrol.”

“Only because you did one time,” Dick reminds him, as if he'll ever live that down for the rest of his life. “Alright, hop on,” he tells Patrick, who latches his arms around Dick's neck and hooks his legs around his sides. “Say 'bye dad',” Patrick repeats him, beaming, “and we're going to stay up all night, right buddy?”

“All night,” Patrick parrots, repeating again and again as Dick carries him out of the room. He'll be asleep within the hour.

-

It's not that Bruce doesn't trust Alfred, but he makes sure to roll up the partition before Silver gets into the back with him. He doesn't feel like being the center of attention more than absolutely necessary tonight.

She nods to Alfred as he holds the door for her and then she's nestled against his side, warm and inviting and it takes a bit of mental schooling to not make Alfred take them somewhere else, somewhere that isn't a thinly veiled public display. He wouldn't be going if Silver hadn't asked, but she asked so nicely.

“Good evening, Ms St Cloud.”

“Good evening to yourself, Mr Wayne,” she says back, bemused. Bruce pulls the drawing out of his breast pocket and unfolds it for Silver. “What's that?”

“Patrick sends his regards,” he says, and shakes it once to get her to take it. “I'm afraid I couldn't pry the subject matter out of the artist.”

“It's,” she holds it out in front of her, flips it upside down, and laughs, “it's cute, whatever it is.”

“He's growing fond of you.”

“I'm going to be his favorite after the kid's concert,” she declares.

“I'm sorry I can't make it,” he says.

“You'd be more of a spectacle than the actual show,” she teases.

“I guess so,” he chuffs. “Thank you.”

“It's a two hour concert. It's really not a problem.”

“I mean for more than that.”

She puts a hand on his arm and squeezes his bicep. “I know.”

He doesn't know what he did to deserve her.

Per Bruce's request Alfred lets them out a block from the gala entrance. Bruce wants to savor a bit of private time before people realize they've arrived, plus there's a new mural on the wall across from the museum, one he's actually featured in indirectly.

“Have a nice night, Master Bruce, Ms St Cloud.”

“Thanks Alfred,” Silver coos, and she loops her hand around the crook of Bruce's elbow. “I'll keep him out of trouble.”

“Somehow I doubt that, Ms St Cloud,” Alfred sighs. He taps two fingers near his temple, indicating his communicator firmly affixed to his right ear. “Enjoy the gala.”

Bruce takes a leading step towards the Museum and Silver falls into step beside him. “You can take comfort in knowing I haven’t gotten any indication something is going to happen at tonight’s gala.”

“You better hope you’re right,” she says, winking when Bruce looks down at her. “So, since Alfred was kind enough to drop us off I’m guessing Dick is the one on Patrick duty tonight.”

“Patrick’s developed a healthy level of energy common in his age group,” Bruce explains, “and while Alfred is more than capable I think Dick is more well equipped to match it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just bring him along,” Silver comments.

“He’s three,” Bruce says.

“I know,” Silver groans. “When did that happen?”

“You realize this means Dick is already eighteen,” he teases.

“I had no idea I’d feel so ancient in my early thirties. What’s happening?” she laments, a bit over the top, but they’re both smiling when she regains the composure she pretended to lose. “You told me about a Batman mural someone put up on the brick outside the coffee shop.”

“It’s technically graffiti, but only because the artist didn’t ask permission.” He’s impressed by the details, actually, given his lack of publicity. Some of them are a bit embellished, sure, but a few are a bit close for comfort. “No one wants it taken down, though, at least not on the city’s side. I’m sure there’s a civilian or two that would rather not have it glaring through their apartment windows late at night.”

“It’ll keep them honest.”

“Let’s hope so,” he sighs. “It’s just up here around the corner.”

The Batman is only a fraction of the mural, which includes a smattering of GCPD officers and other first responders around a giant, stylized 'Gotham’ in the center. It feels good to be interpreted as on the same level as others sworn to protect the city, but the sheer level of detail the artist has gotten rather close to reality is a bit disconcerting.

“Wow,” Silver reaches out a hand to brush a few fingers over the generous artist rendition of Bruce's chin. “Don't let your ego get all swollen.”

“I'll try not to.”

“At least they got your giant head right,” she teases. He really will never escape that criticism. “It should be in a museum.”

“You just told me to not get a big ego.”

“No, I mean,” she waves her hand at the expanse of the brick wall, “I don't know, Bruce. I just think it should be preserved, or that you shouldn't have to duck down an alley to see it.”

“I understand,” he says as he tucks an arm around her waist and pulls her away from the mural, “but I think the artist prefers anonymity.”

He can relate.

As they turn in tandem to leave the alley Bruce sees a shadow figure step into the dim light, and there really is something morbidly poetic about The Batman admiring a mural of The Batman and getting mugged in the process, but he really was hoping for a dull, average night for once. Dispatching the man will prove easy enough; he's only armed with a switchblade and the air of desperation around him means he'll be sloppy. He just has to take some extra care to keep his suit from getting damaged in the process so they aren't late to the gala-

Silver's let go of his arm and shoves her purse into Bruce's fumbling arms. The man's mouth drops open, possibly in preparation to make his demands, but she uses a simple disarm to send the knife flying into the wall. In a twin motion she pulls the man's head down and sends her knee up, hard, and he drops like a bag of rocks.

Bruce can't even move for a few seconds while he watches Silver catch her breath, chest heaving, and she brushes a lock of hair out of her face.

“You,” he takes a moment to double check the consciousness of the man, out cold, “you do remember what my night job is, right?”

“I kind of went on auto pilot,” she grimaces. “Aunt Tabby always said I should know how to handle myself.”

“I don't think I've ever been more turned on in my entire life,” Bruce admits, and she snorts. He’s dead serious. There's something very appealing about watching someone handle themselves as well as Silver just did. “How long does it take for being fashionably late to turn into actual rudeness?”

Silver rolls her eyes and gives a little extra sway to her hips as she walks over. “Probably about as long as it takes for Alfred to bring me a fresh pair of pantyhose.” She smirks. “People will talk.”

“They always do. It does fit with my persona,” Bruce says lowly. Silver grins and drags a finger across the front of his lapel before clutching it and dragging him out of the alley.

-

“Do you think I look nice enough?” Dick asks as he fidgets with the cuffs of his button down shirt. It's patterned, wild but contained with a dark paisley, and it pairs nicely with a pair of his more relaxed dress slacks. “Gosh, I really don't want to have to change again.”

“Again?” Bruce asks.

“Babs is all like, 'chivalry is dead just be a nice guy'- am I a nice guy?” He waves a nervous hand to keep Bruce from actually answering. “Right, I know but like, her  _ dad _ keeps insisting he meet me at the door and doing the whole scary interrogation about our plans for the night. I just don't want it to be worse because I didn't dress right.”

Bruce wishes he never helped Dick get his driver's license because watching Jim Gordon grill Dick is one of life's greatest pleasures. It's an act, and even if he didn't have actual verbal confirmation from the man himself he's gotten enough winks from Jim to know he's teasing Dick because he  _ can _ . He's just so easy to fluster.

“You might consider a jacket,” Bruce says, “and a tie.”

Dick looks absolutely dismayed. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt and groans. “You really think so?”

“The first step of dating is to dress to impress,” he explains.

“Oh come now, Master B,” Alfred tuts as he enters the room with the coffee Bruce requested earlier. “A fine young specimen like Master Grayson here shouldn't wear a jacket to his date with Miss Gordon.” He gives Dick a once over and nods to himself. “I'd consider a tux.”

“A tux!?” Dick sputters. “We're going to a movie!”

“Yes, a fancy evening requires a gentleman's penguin suit. Not  _ the _ Penguin's though. Man has a unique style I don't think you're quite prepared to pull off yet.”

“Holy crap,” Dick groans, “I hate both of you. Do you think this is okay or not?”

“It's fine,” Bruce chuckles at Dick's reddened cheeks. “Really, you look very nice, Dick. And Barbara's old enough and stubborn enough to ignore her father's input.”

“Yeah but  _ I'm  _ not,” Dick whines. “Barbara likes me, Leslie likes me. Why'd she and Jim have to get married anyway?”

“I assume because they like each other,” Bruce teases him, and Dick drops his head into his hands.

“I better get going,” Dick mumbles, “he'll skin me if it looks like I stood her up.” He straightens and gives himself one last look. “So it really looks okay?”

“Go,” Bruce says, and he shoves Dick towards the door. “Tell Jim hi from me and Alfred. And don't let him scare you too badly. You're taller than him.”

“Yeah,  _ now _ ,” Dick sighs. “I'll see you later.”

“Have fun,” Bruce says, and Dick grumbles but he doesn't say anything in the negative. Bruce turns his attention to Alfred. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“I believe Missers Nygma and Fries should be available shortly for your scheduled chat,” Alfred says instead of a reply. “You don't want to keep them waiting any more than Dick wants to keep Jim.”

“Fair point.” He takes a sip of his drink and stands up from the chair in Dick's room. “I'll be in the Batcave.”

Bruce types a few keys on the keyboard at his main terminal before dropping into his chair. He watches as the screens start lighting up one by one, and after a few more minutes he gets the first notification from the Fries’ terminal.

“Hell-oh, Nora.”

“Evening, Bruce,” Nora says. She’s wearing Victor’s headset and smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. Victor’s,” she looks offscreen and her face contorts with suppressed laughter. “Sleeping? Don’t tell him I showed you this,” she whispers as she turns the tablet around. Bruce chokes on his coffee when he sees Victor asleep at the cabin’s kitchen table, one hand still curled around a glass. “He’s been up for two days straight.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“Insomnia,” she shrugs. “He’s always had trouble with it. I usually just let him sleep wherever he drops.”

“Hold on a moment,” Bruce says, and he accepts the connection from Ed and Oswald’s terminal. “How’s your night going, Ed?”

“Splendidly,” Ed preens. He turns off some of the charm when Bruce links his connection with Nora and settles into something more genuine. “Ah, Nora. I’m used to your screen having an icy attitude.”

“Victor’s asleep. Isn’t it after midnight there?” Nora asks Ed.

“Only just. Although I  _ am  _ the only one still awake,” Ed sighs. He’s fiddling with something, a puzzle box of sorts. “Given the lack of urgency from either of you I’m going to assume there’s nothing new to report.”

“Dick has another date tonight,” Bruce says. It’s about the most exciting thing to happen since last week.

“I’m sure the Commissioner is  _ thrilled _ ,” Ed chuckles under his breath. He lifts a piece of his puzzle and examines it closely.

“I can't imagine Dick will cause much trouble at a movie.”

“Yes, those shadowy sanctuaries certainly are a comfort for a father.  _ Can't  _ imagine teenagers are doing anything salacious.”

“Ed,” Nora whisper-shrieks. She covers her mouth to laugh, but it turns into a moan of sympathy at something off screen. Victor, most likely. If his sleep is as poor as she says it wouldn’t take much to wake him. She tugs on a glove and reaches out to him, and he looks into the camera for the tablet long enough to huff out an annoyed breath before dropping his face onto Nora’s lap. She uses her gloved hand to run her fingers through his hair. “I don't think I can stay on any longer. Someone,” she ruffles Victor's hair, “might need my help falling back to sleep.” He grumbles something and she smiles. “Goodnight.”

“Take care,” Bruce says. Ed mumbles something similar. “Same time next week.”

“Bruce,” Ed interjects as he's reaching for the switch to break the connection. “One last thing.”

“Of course.”

“We have a house guest. Martin,” Ed adds, “in case you have some sort of check in and see a third body pesent.”

“Thank you.” It's a trust exercise more than anything; it's a good sign that Ed feels comfortable enough to reveal unneeded information to Bruce. “Doesn't he have classes?”

“Just finished his program,” Ed beams. “He's visiting, or if Oswald has his way he'll be moving into one of the guest rooms and finding work here. Currently the safe bet is the latter, though Martin's nearly as stubborn as Oswald.”

_ And you _ , Bruce thinks, though not unkindly. They're where they are now because of it. “Have a good night, Ed.”

“Likewise,” and he signs off.

-

Patrolling is taking more and more out of him lately. It doesn't help that his days blend into nights, and then sometimes back again without time to sit down let alone sleep. Alfred tells him he needs to slow down. Alfred doesn’t know he’s tried already, and the idle time nearly sent him into a panic. This is Gotham. There’s always something that needs doing or fixing, and sometimes he really is the only one that can do it properly.

His first order of business (after removing armor and anything else that may give his secrets away) is to go check on Patrick. He’s developing a terrible sleep pattern despite Alfred’s valiant attempts to correct them; he’s too interested in being a night owl like his old man to bother with the daylight hours. Daycare at Wayne Enterprises (and Silver and Alfred, and even Nora) has gently (and insistently) voiced a concern for his ability to adapt to normal school hours if he keeps it up.

It’s not like he couldn’t hire a private tutor that would work with the schedule, but that’s not the point everyone is trying to make. Bruce’s experience with growing up is meant to be an outlier, something he shouldn’t want for his son.

(He doesn’t want that for Patrick, not for a second, but it’s hard to give him something he doesn’t have any experience with. Silver helps, more than she can ever know.)

Patrick’s room is gently lit from the small night light near the door. He’s lying in his bed, arms akimbo as he sleeps through the early morning hours without trouble. There’s a giant, somewhat flat stuffed cat near the foot of his bed, an old ‘gift’ from a certain cat-aligned individual. He picks it up and handles its floppy limbs while coming to sit where it was lying.

There’s a tiny sigh and a yawn, and Patrick stirs. Bruce holds still in case he falls back to sleep, but his wide, grey-green eyes blink open. He rubs his tiny fists over them and sits up.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bruce says softly. “Go back to sleep,” he chides Patrick, but he lifts an arm when Patrick starts trying to crawl onto his lap. “Did you have fun with Dick?”

“Watched a movie,” he mumbles, still mostly asleep. “Two of them.”

“Busy night,” Bruce enthuses. He stopped three robberies and a mugging, but if he has to start measuring his achievements against that of his three year old son he needs to reevaluate his life. Patrick wriggles off his lap and wanders off to another corner of his room towards his chest of toys. “Patrick, it’s not time to play.”

“Got a present,” Patrick insists. He opens up the chest and leans over until half his chest isn’t visible, and he leans back up triumphantly with a large picture book in hand.

“Who gave you this?” Bruce asks. It’s a heavy book, especially when Patrick essentially drops it on his lap, and he runs his fingers over the ornate, leather bound cover before opening up to a beautifully drawn jungle scape. There aren’t any words, just the pictures, but Patrick marvels at each one as Bruce continues to turn the pages.

“Lina,” Patrick exclaims, and he points out a jaguar on the next page and roars, making little claws with his hands.

“I see,” Bruce says, frowning down at the sleek cat on the page. “I didn’t know she was back.”


	3. Chapter 2: Selina

There’s movement on the first floor of the Manor. Selina watches Alfred through the half drawn curtains as he tidies up the place, and there’s a moment where he looks out the window at the yard. She holds her breath, counting in her head as he turns away from the window, satisfied with whatever he must have seen or not seen. After he’s turned his back to the window she slips down off the tree and starts slinking towards the trellis attached to the back of the house.

A light flicks on upstairs and she freezes mid motion. One, two breaths, and then she catches the edge of Dick’s dopey little smile through the window in Patrick’s room. She relaxes her stance and climbs the trellis onto the balcony off the second floor and keeps to the shadows to watch.

Dick is getting Patrick ready for bed, carrying the floppy toddler as he talks. She can’t hear, but she can make a few guesses. He’s not tired, really he’s not. He’s hungry, or maybe he’s learned a new trick or two, like hearing monsters or the Joker or whatever it is that kids tell their parents in Gotham. It’s not like Dick is a hard one to win over; kid’s a goody two shoes just like Bruce, only he’s a lot more approachable. It’s no wonder the kid adores him.

For all the fight Patrick puts up he doesn’t protest when Dick tucks him in and shuts off the light. She waits for Dick to leave the room, and the second she hears the soft snick of the latch through the window she slides over to it and pushes it open.

Patrick's eyes, which were nearly closed, fly open and he beams at her. “Lina!”

“I came looking for a little guy, 'bout this tall,” she holds her hand out by her hip, “but all I see is this giant sleeping in his bed.” She throws herself onto the foot of the bed and rests her chin on her hands. “You got all big on me, Pat.”

He stands up on his mattress and flexes his tiny little arms, growling while he tries to show off. She snatches him up and god, he got tall but he also got  _ heavy _ . He knocks the wind out of her when he lands on her stomach, and she plays dead until he starts gently papping her cheek with his chubby hands.

“Did I killed you, Lina?”

“Just about,” she groans theatrically. “Gotta get a new stomach. Maybe your daddy can buy me one.” She starts tickling his and he shrieks with delight, but he also nearly kicks her in the jaw, so maybe it's time to be done roughhousing for one night. “Did you like your book?”

Patrick scoots off her lap and toddles over to his bookshelf. She watches him tug half his books off looking for the fancy picture book Ed sent her way during his last job, and when he finds it he lifts it over his head and carries it over. He drops it onto the bed by Selina's side and she props herself up to start flipping through the pictures.

He's got a few wires crossed in the animal kingdom, every time Selina points to some sort of big cat he meows, but she's got to give Patrick credit because he's got their species names down, even the tricky ones. “Someone's been doing his homework, nerd,” she teases. “You're definitely Bruce's son.”

He yawns and rubs his hands over his face. Selina scoops him up and moves him to the head of his bed. One of his hands reaches down for something, and she finds the floppy cat on the floor to Patrick's left. “Can't forget Katty,” she says, and she drops the cat into his arms. He rolls so he's resting half on its soft middle, she brushes some of his curly hair off his forehead so she can kiss him, and by the time she's crossed the room to exit through the window he's already asleep. “Don't let the black cat bite,” she whispers. “Night Patrick.”

There's two bodies occupying the balcony she climbs out on to, Alfred and Dick, and Selina swears under her breath. “I see we've found the culprit of our young Master's interrupted sleep pattern, although if it's alright for me to say I do believe you're getting a bit sloppy, Miss Kyle. Master Grayson caught sight of you before you'd even touched the grounds.”

“Looks like bird boy is cheating,” Selina drawls, pointing one sharp nail at the telescope Dick is using to examine the night sky. “Can you even see anything with all this light around?”

“It's better than in the city,” Dick says. “I'm not looking for stars anyway.”

“Just cats,” she jokes. He huffs a quiet laugh, but doesn't look away from the telescope.

“And a satellite,” Dick says. “A new one some fancy international company sent up.”

“That the one Ed's trying to get his grubby hands on?” Selina asks. Wayne Enterprises should keep their fancy announcements to themselves. Alfred sighs tiredly. “Bet Bruce loves that.”

God, the thought of Ed, and by proxy the Riddler on a bad day, having access to something connected to the whole globe gives her hives.

“Master Bruce is doing his best to keep Ed's attention elsewhere,” Alfred says. And he's obviously tired of the subject because he changes it real fast. “Is the young Master asleep?”

“Out like a light,” Selina says. “Pretty sure it's someone  _ in _ the Manor screwing up the kid's sleep.”

“You may be right about that,” Alfred agrees. “How long will you be in town, Miss Kyle?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs. “Just finished a job, haven't gotten a new one from Ed yet. Personal project stalled out, too.”

“Are you going to see Bruce?” Dick asks innocently. He's looking up from the telescope, head tipped to the side like a lost little puppy.

She really hates dogs. “Nah.”

“Oh.”

“Kid, if he  _ wanted  _ to see me he would have made it happen. Bruce isn't subtle.”

“I'm inclined to agree,” Alfred says, “although Master Bruce has never had an easy time admitting when he wants something, especially if he feels it makes him vulnerable. I don't think a face to face meeting would be met with as much animosity as you're expecting.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs one shoulder, “or it could be ten times worse if he's pretending to be happy about seeing me.”

“I suppose one of you will have to take the leap of faith, then,” Alfred says, “or the two of you can keep circling around each other like a pair of alley cats.”

“I wouldn't hold my breath,” Selina says.

“Nor do I plan to, Miss Kyle. Now, unlike the two of you I do have some duties to attend to, namely the incessant calls from one cowled vigilante that can't seem to remember how to navigate this city to save his life.”

“Have fun Alfie,” Selina sing songs, and he holds back whatever comment he came up with and leaves her on the balcony with the boy wonder, who's currently staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dick ducks his head. “I just think, well I think Alfred is right. Bruce  _ does _ want to see you.”

“You think so, huh.”

“It’s just, gosh, he knows you stop by all the time. No one else gets Patrick cat stuff.” Dick glances over at the window. “And Patrick gives you up every time.”

“Little snitch,” Selina scoffs. “Who taught him that?” Dick doesn't laugh, but the smile is better than his queasy stare. “What really makes you think Bruce wants to see me?”

“He hasn't tried to keep you away.”

Selina bites the inside of her cheek. Dick's getting too smart for his own good. “Maybe I'm not ready to see him either.”

“Okay.” Dick starts fiddling with the telescope knobs. “But you'll come by again? Patrick misses you when you're gone for to long.”

“I’ll drop in a few more times,” she nods. “Maybe more than usual if Ed doesn't stop fawning over that kid of theirs long enough to find more work for me to do.”

“I could let you know when Bruce is on patrol,” Dick offers, and Selina makes an effort to soften her expression. The kid means well, but she won't risk chance that Bruce convinced him to lie to her so they can duke it out. “That is, if you're really dead set on not running into each other.”

“I'll leave it up to fate,” she says, and she hops down off the balcony and lands on her feet. “I'd love to stay and chat,” she shouts up at him as he grins down at her, “but there's things to steal, cats to feed. Got a long night ahead of me.”

“Bye, Selina.”

“Take care of yourself bean pole,” she teases, and then she slips up a tree overhanging the perimeter wall and drops onto the shadowy grass on the other side.

-

The old apartment building in the Narrows is still standing, but it sure isn't pretty. One of the fire escapes is hardly hanging on these days, and Selina grimaces at the giant flakes of rust that come off onto her gloves when she grabs the ladder leading to the second floor. She throws herself up around the outside, moving fast as the creaks and groans protest her added weight. There's a real possibility it'll tear free of the wall one of these days, but for now it holds long enough for Selina to reach the top floor and crawl in through the window.

The  _ screams _ she is greeted with are awful. Adult cats start rubbing against her with stars in their eyes. They know who feeds them right. While she was gone at least two of the cats had kittens, and they all mew up at her and start trying to stick their little needle claws into her legs.

“Man, a girl's gone for two months and suddenly there's a damn army demanding she lead.” Selina reaches down for a scruffy gray kitten and uses a finger to scratch at his little chin. He mews pathetically and paws at her finger. “Anyone gonna fess up?” she asks the room, but about twenty pairs of eyes just stare at her before the horde starts moving for the kitchen. “Ingrates.”

There’s nothing left in her fridge, but she has an emergency stash of some dry food and soft kitten food in a cabin-nope, well shit. She’s going to have to give Ivy a little call.

Selina throws open the window in her kitchen and grabs a loose chunk of concrete from the ledge. She tosses it at the window across the alley and one of the vines wrapped around the fire escape jolts upon impact. Another vine shoots out and wrapped around Selina’s wrist, but she remains still until Ivy’s plants recognize her and stop trying to tear her in half.

“Selina?” Ivy throws open her own window and shouts into the alley. “I didn’t know you were back!”

“I didn’t know you used up all my cat food,” Selina yells back. “You better have some over there or I’m going to feed your plants to my cats.”

“You will not!” she snaps, and a few vines lash out and slam into the brick wall of Selina’s building.

“Easy Ivy,” Selina holds up her hands. “Just making a little joke. Remember? We’re working on you not taking things so seriously.”

Ivy huffs and crosses her arms. A few vines reach out to her and stroke her bare arms comfortingly. “You’re still not feeding my babies to your  _ cats _ .”

“No, but I  _ am  _ going to have to let them roam and fend for themselves. You better tell your  _ plants  _ to leave them alone if they end up on your roof while they hunt birds.”

Ivy huffs. “Just tell them not to chew!”

“Ha,” Selina laughs. “You try telling them that. They don't listen to me.” Selina crawls out onto the windowsill and pushes off the wall so she can grab the fire escape and climb up to Ivy's window. “You didn't destroy anything while I was gone, did you?”

“No,” Ivy scoffs. She backs up so Selina can crawl through the window and join her in the humid, damp, and kind of smelly room full of plants. “I was very busy here. It was germination time, and I couldn't miss the opportunity to increase my plant family. I even made a few hybrids.”

“Cool,” Selina drawls. She walks over to the trays full of tiny seedlings and gently taps a finger against some of the tiny leaves. “No issues over at my place?”

“Well, I  _ tried  _ to green up the place with a few ferns, but your stupid cats wouldn't stop trying to eat them.”

“Yeah, they do that,” Selina sighs. She watches a few of the adult cats slink out the window she left opens and hop down onto nearby ledges and fire escapes to start hunting. “Thanks for feeding them, even if you did leave me high and dry tonight.”

“It's not like  _ I _ could get more,” she complains. She's teasing a few plants to curl into the long tresses of her hair and slowly twist it into a series of loose braids. “Get the boy to bring you more if you're so needy.”

“Dick's busy learning how to be a peeping Tom,” Selina says. Ivy's nose wrinkles up with distaste and Selina smirks. “Kidding, he's being a giant nerd.”

“That sounds more like him,” Ivy says. She pats her plants lovingly after they finish with he hair.

“So,” Selina walks a few fingers over a nearby vine holding up a battery powered clock, “you find any new leads?”

Ivy shakes her head, and Selina sighs. It's the same answer every time. What good is having the entire city under her radar if it can't find one guy?

“I do have a good read on Patrick,” she offers, and Selina's ears perk up. “Kids are  _ super  _ smelly. I couldn’t lose track of him even if I tried.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Selina says.

“No,” Ivy shrugs, “but you’re not mad I did are you?” Selina chews on the bottom of her lip and huffs. “Selina?”

“What if somebody got ahold of your network?” Selina slaps her hand down on her thigh and sighs. “ _ Think _ Ivy. Strange got control of you before-”

“I  _ am  _ thinking!” She huffs angrily and her plants shudder in kind. “If he takes  _ one step _ back into the city I’ll know, and he’ll be  _ dead _ .  _ No one  _ is getting my network from me. It’s  _ mine _ .”

“Fine,” Selina raises her hands in surrender. “It’s yours Ivy, just, if Bruce ever asks to use it  _ let  _ him. Throw him a bone since he agreed to let you spread out here in the Narrows.”

“I already  _ do _ ,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “And  _ Jim Gordon _ keeps trying to get me to follow Dick around-” Selina snorts- “and then there’s  _ Silver _ .”

“Can you even tell her apart from Bruce?” Selina jokes. “According to the gossip rag they’re all over each other.”

Ivy scoffs. “I don’t read the  _ paper _ , Selina. It kills trees!”

“Whatever.”  _ Dick  _ would have laughed, maybe even Alfred. Ivy’s no good at humor; ruins the joke when you have to explain it, or in her case when you get distracted by the plants involved. “What were you going to say?”

“When?”

Selina groans, “about  _ Silver _ , Ivy. Follow the conversation when you’re part of it.”

“Oh,” Ivy shrugs. “Bruce just gets all protective and whiny,” she mocks, “and he makes me focus on her when she drags Patrick around town. Alfred’s usually  _ there _ . It’s not like anything is going to happen.”

“Just Silver,” Selina whispers.

“ _ And  _ Alfred, god, and you think  _ I  _ don’t listen.”

“Right,” Selina trails off. She teases a few fingers over some of the plant leaves as she walks back over to the window. “So, I’m gonna go,” she gestures out the window with her thumb. “Got to find somewhere with cat food that’s still open.” Ivy waves her off, more focused on her dumb plants than Selina. “Say, Ivy,” she places one hand on the window sill, “send me a ring or whatever it is your plants do the next time Silver and Patrick are running solo.”

-

It’s some cheesy, over-saturated kid’s show. Selina cocks one hip until it makes contact with the half wall surrounding the roof across from the theatre and sighs. There’s a crowd of parents with their little snot nosed brats all huddled around the front doors, but no one’s gone inside yet. Quick search told her it’s not letting people in for at least another half hour, but that hasn’t stopped the entire audience from already arriving.

She spots the limo before Alfred even gets out to open up the doors. He’s letting them off at the corner on the block with Selina’s current perch. On one hand it makes sense, because there’s an ass load of cars backed up on the street trying to let people out at the front door. And Silver’s capable of walking half a block even in her fancy stilettos. Little bit much for a kid’s show. Her hair’s nice, though, and her dress isn’t going to make too many people perv out. Only the ones that were already pervs.

Selina watches her kneel down and straighten Patrick’s little tie underneath his dumb sweater vest. She’s going to have to have a talk with whoever’s dressing him because they’re making him look like a giant nerd. He squirms away, and she can’t hear his words but he’s excited and smiling; even though he can’t see her she smiles too. Silver might be boring but she’s got a real mom vibe all worked out. She takes hold of his chubby little hand and starts marching across, smiling and chatting right along with him to keep his excitement bolstered.

Someone from the theatre walks outside to meet Silver and Patrick as they near the crowd, and they part the way to bring Bruce Wayne’s spoiled brat to the front of the line. Selina chuckles under her breath and shakes her head. Kid could ask his dad for the key to the city and Bruce’s only question would be what color velvet he wants in his fancy box. Shortly after they enter the ‘commoners’ start filing inside through the double doors.

Sitting on the roof for two hours isn’t Selina’s idea of thrilling, but she doesn’t even have time to stand up straight before some movement in the alley next to the theatre catches her eye. Half the crowd is still standing outside, and three canisters fly at them, sending billowing clouds of smoke to confuse and scatter. She plants a hand on the half wall and grabs hold of the nearest drain pipe, using it to slide down to the ground and start sprinting over to the growing chaos.

A security detail opens a side door and Selina slips inside before it shuts behind him. The theatre is dark; some of those goons cut the power, but Selina moves through it easily. There’s too many people panicking in the main hallways, trying to move towards the exits in a giant mass by cell phone light, so Selina hops up onto some of the columns to make her way to the stage.

Bruce has a permanent box at the Gotham Theatre, and she spots one blonde holding her phone aloft and looking down at someone Selina can’t see past the balcony wall except for a mop of curly hair. Patrick reaches up his hands and Silver shushes him gently, bending down and saying comforting things to him.

“We’re going to wait for a guard,” she hears Silver tell him. “It’s okay, come here,” she coos, bundling him up in a hug.

Selina’s about a hundred feet from them now and hanging onto the top of a roman style column. She could carry Patrick out but not Silver. The men that attacked the crowd outside aren’t inside yet, but they  _ will  _ be, because there’s no way Bruce Wayne’s son isn’t the target.

“Patrick, Patrick honey it’s oka-” Silver’s voice gets cut off and Selina bounds into action before registering the threat, only that she needs to jump in and stop it. Silver is shielding Patrick from one of the armed thugs, and Selina uses the momentum from leaping off the closest column to send her foot right into his gut. Her eyes connect with Silver and she raises her brows in greeting, and it’s that stupid move that stops her from realizing there was another guy until she feels the blunt end of a gun connect with the back of her head.

She’s dazed and falls, but she doesn’t black out. The man steps over her and grabs Silver by the arm. She shrieks, and Selina reaches a shaky hand down to her belt to grab a smoke bomb and set it off.

She hates these damn things, but it does the job. The man starts coughing and Selina grabs him by the ankle to drag him off Silver. Tiny, hacking coughs catch her attention and she crawls forward, trying to stay under the cloud of smoke until she reaches Patrick’s tiny, hunched form near the wall of the balcony.

“C’mere Pat,” she whispers, holding out a cloth and holding it over his mouth. He flops against her and burrows against her shoulder. “Silver,  _ run _ ,” Selina commands to the cloud, and she swings down off the balcony with Patrick tucked against her side.

They make it all the way to the roof and he’s  _ still  _ coughing up a storm. She sets him down and kneels in front of him, making some of the same cooing sounds Silver did before the men found them. There are big, fat tears in his eyes, but he’s holding it together like a little champ. “Buddy, I know that  _ sucked _ , but I need you to sit right here,” she pulls him to a little alcove behind the roof access door, “and let me go see if I can find Silver, okay? Can you do that?”

“Lina,” he whimpers, and she huffs before tugging him back into a hug. “Want dad.”

“I know, and boy is he going to be  _ pissed _ ,” she starts joking, and then she stops herself. She has a bad feeling, and  _ not  _ from the obvious. “Patrick, just sit here for me, just for one second.” He nods, wiping snot all over her shoulder, and he curls up behind a breaker box. “Good boy. I’ll be  _ right  _ back, I promise.”

She doesn’t find her, and by the time she gets back to the roof Patrick is shaking like a leaf. He pitches forward into Selina’s arms, and  _ now  _ he’s sobbing, inconsolable, but she doesn’t have time to even try to get him to stop.

-

She parks the stolen car just outside the gate leading to Bruce’s cabin and hops out. Patrick’s been sleeping for the past hour, having finally worn himself out, and he fusses when she picks him up from the back and settles him onto one hip. She shushes him and pets his hair, and he loops his arms around her neck.

“Bet it’s been  _ ages _ since you’ve seen these guys,” she whispers, moving a few curls out of his face. He hides it against her shoulder and whines. “I know, buddy. You’ll get to sleep once we’re at the house.”

She types in the gate code and walks the rest of the rest of the way to the cabin. The door opens before she’s even on the front step, and she comes face to face with Victor’s freeze gun and his trademark scowl. He lifts it up onto his shoulder and huffs out a breath.

“It’s the cat,” he says behind him, and Nora gives him a look as she takes his place in the doorway.

“We didn’t recognize the car,” she tells Selina. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh, not really,” Selina admits. “Look, I know this is a lot, but I need you guys to watch him.”

“Wh-oh, alright,” Nora blinks fast, bewildered, but she holds out her arms and accepts Patrick from Selina. He blinks at her, confused. “Do you remember us, Patrick?”

“Nora,” he says after a long delay, poor kid, “and cold guy.”

Nora bursts out a single laugh, and Victor smirks, which is like laughing for the guy. “Close enough.”

“Victor,” Nora says, both to Patrick and getting his attention. “Can you get the guest room ready for him?” He nods. “Thank you.” She rucks Patrick up on her hip a bit higher and sighs. “What’s happening, Selina?”

“I don’t know yet,” she says. “I don’t know, but he’s not safe in Gotham.”

“Okay,” she nods. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“I know,” Selina nods, “and Bruce will see that too,” Nora’s brow creases. “No, he doesn’t know yet. Look, I’m going back to Gotham right now, and he’ll know the  _ second _ I get back. Just  _ don’t  _ use whatever thing you use to call him.”

“Is it unsafe?”

“I don’t know,” Selina shakes her head, “I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling, so you two should go dark for a little while.” She steps in quick to kiss Patrick’s forehead. “Be good for them, buddy,” and to Nora she says, “stay off the grid, and stay safe.”


	4. Chapter 3: Bruce

“Alfred, get Ivy on the phone,” Bruce snaps as he pulls on one of his boots. The wrong boot. Wrong foot. He takes a breath and pulls it off. “Dick should be back from his date soon. Once he’s arrived send him after me.”

“And what do you propose he  _ do _ , exactly, sir?” Alfred asks. He’s exasperated, but he’s also holding onto the other pieces of Bruce’s armor while he gets ready. “Just so I can be as clear as possible.”

“I,” Bruce puts his head in his hands. “Whoever took Silver and Patrick aren’t going to wait around for us to figure things out. They’re going to send a ransom to Bruce Wayne-”

“Yourself, sir, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“-and they’re going to  _ regret  _ taking them.” He shoves on his other boot and stands. “I’ll need Dick to follow up on any leads that I’m not already addressing.”

“Master B, I know this is stressful for you,” Alfred says calmly, using the same soothing voice he uses whenever Bruce is worked up about something, “but do  _ you  _ even know where you’re going to start?”

“The theatre,” he says. Obviously. It’s where they were taken from. “Something of this scale is difficult to pull off at all, let alone without leaving evidence behind.”

“Right,” Alfred sighs. “Bruce,” he pulls back the cowl before Bruce can take it from him, “sit, just for a moment.”

“I need to  _ find  _ them,” Bruce seethes, but he lets Alfred force him to sit back down.

“I know, and we  _ will _ ,” he puts both hands on Bruce’s shoulders. “Take a moment to breathe, Bruce. Carelessness won’t do them any favors.”

He takes in a deep breath, and he feels his chest shudder during the exhale. “I’m worried,” he admits. “Alfred, I should have been there with them.”

“But you weren’t,” Alfred says, “because you needed to be elsewhere. And don’t you  _ start _ -” he holds up a finger, scolding, “just because it was a party. In your honor, might I add. I seem to remember a conversation about how the concert was your way of shielding Patrick from the crowds.”

“It was,” Bruce rasps. He clears his throat. “Alfred, what do I do?”

“You find them,” he says firmly, “and I’ll help you do it.”

-

Police have the area on lockdown, but there’s still a good portion of the crowd in front of the theatre. Interviews, most likely, and a few are being treated on site for minor injuries. He still hopes to see Silver’s long hair in the crowd, or maybe Patrick’s wild mop.

He doesn’t, but he can hope. It keeps him from punching the wall in anger.   
“They shut the whole block down,” someone says behind him, and he whirls around with a batarang in hand. Selina slinks up to him and crosses her arms. “Hi Bruce.”

“Selina.” He looks down at his hand and returns the batarang to its clip. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Look,” she sighs, “don’t start that way, okay? It’s been  _ three  _ years. Don’t pretend it’s been a  _ week _ .”

“I know that." He breathes. This was bound to happen,  _ needs _ to happen, so he can move on to more important things. "I'm a bit distracted,” he admits. “Silver and Patrick were taken.”

Selina bobs her head a few times, “you’re half right.”

“What?”

“I,” she throws her hands up, “I was here. A bunch of guys stormed the audience before the show even started. Half the people weren’t even in the  _ building _ .”

“Why were  _ you _ here?”

“Does it matter?” she shrugs. “I just was, and I want inside to check on them after those guys attacked the crowd. They were in your box. Somebody cut the lights inside, and a few guys rushed them.” She holds up a finger. “And don’t you  _ start _ . I  _ tried  _ to help, and I got Patrick-”

“Patrick’s safe?” He feels the tightness in his chest lessen. “Where is he?”

“I can't tell you.”

He sees himself grab her by the shoulder, slam her against a wall, scream-he takes a deep breath. And a few more. Selina blinks a few times, watching, maybe knowing he's imagining something violent. It doesn't seem to phase her. “Why?”

“Because I think someone's watching you,” she says. “Or, maybe they're  _ listening _ to you, but if I tell you I think whoever sent these men after him will know too.”

“That’s,” ridiculous, is what he wants to say, but he hesitates, because it really  _ isn’t _ , “concerning.”

“Yeah,” she nods, “I  _ know _ . Look, do you have that dumb screen built into the cowl still or is it audio only?”

“Audio,” he says. He turns off the connection with Alfred with a single tap, but if Selina is correct then there’s a chance he’s turned off  _ his  _ connection, but a secondary, more insidious one remains. Bruce glances down at the street below, and the officers currently preoccupied with the crime scene, and he pulls his cowl off his face.

“Looking a little sweaty there, Bruce,” she says, pointing a finger at his admittedly moist face. “Got a pen?”

“Of course,” he mumbles, pawing at his various pockets until he produces a pen and a scrap of paper. Selina snatches it out of his hand and does a quick doodle, and she holds it up for Bruce to see.

There’s a box, crudely drawn and a bit misshapen, and a stick figure. Bruce mouths the words, “box man,” and the heavy roll of Selina’s eyes helps something fall into place. She’s been spending too much time working for Ed if she’s resorting to cryptic messages like this. “Fries,” he mouths, and she nods patronizingly. “Just Patrick?”

“I told her to run,” Selina says, “but I couldn’t find her after I got him out of there.”

Bruce tugs his cowl back into place and turns back to the theatre across the street. Selina comes to stand by him, arms crossed, and she gestures to the alley to the left of the building. “They poured out from that alley, and gassed the crowd.”

“I know. I listened to the police scanner.”

“Well did they tell you they went straight for your dumb balcony?” she snaps. “Look, I was  _ here _ . At least hear me out before you go barreling headfirst into this.”

“Selina-”

“They went after Patrick specifically, Bruce!” she shouts, chest heaving. “Okay? Do you understand that?”

“Let me handle this,” Bruce whispers harshly. “Selina, I know they tried to take Patrick, and they  _ might  _ have Silver.” He’s clinging to the hope that she’s found her way somewhere, dark and quiet and alone, but safe, and she’s waiting for Bruce to find the clues that will lead him to her. “But this is my problem. You don't get to drop back into the thick of it just because you decided to visit town for the weekend.”

Selina's eyes narrow. “You can't do this alone, Bruce.”

“I have help,” he says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate. “I just don't need yours.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “do the lone wolf thing. I don't care.” She hops up so she's straddling the guard wall and leaning towards the edge. “But when you finally pull your head out of your ass you know where to find me.”

-

His preliminary investigation is less than fruitful. It's abysmal, actually, and each passing minute without finding a trail or clue or even a long blonde hair ticks his panic up a notch.

An officer presents him with the found evidence, the expressed gas canisters and some casings, but it's all very generic. There's no signature, no customary mark or item left behind, which is frustrating. The GCPD perspective is an attempted mass robbery, that notably failed because nothing was stolen, and Bruce doesn't correct them. He has no reason to.

“The lack of a signature makes it look like this isn't one of the Rogues,” he tells the officer in charge, a stocky woman he has yet to be formally introduced to.

“We'll give you a call if it ever does,” she says, and they part ways. He has a balcony to scour.

He hasn't gotten a ransom notice, but he also hasn't made Silver's absence known. He needs to collect more evidence first. The GCPD could scare whoever did this into doing something drastic, something Bruce would regret if he didn't have all the information.

He finds Silver's handbag in a small alcove inside his theatre box, and he snatches it up before the detectives arrive. He opens it out of habit, and finds a wallet photo of them at one of last year's GCPD gala, and a second one of Patrick the daycare sent out to parents after what Bruce has come to understand was a disaster of a picture day. The paint in Patrick's hair speaks volumes. Toddlers aren't terribly cooperative.

Bruce takes great care to tuck the handbag in a pouch on his thigh. There's no logic behind assuming she'd never go anywhere without it; it's a purse, and the things inside aren't that helpful when someone is trying to hide. The slight pressure of its weight against his leg still fills him with dread.

Back exits are untampered with, but the door to the alley Selina indicated has a crude strip of duct tape covering the lock to keep the door from latching. Likely point of entry, performed by someone already inside the theatre, either an employee or someone disguised as a patron. The closest path to the door from the balconies involves two sets of stairs and a long hallway, all of which are lacking any sign of Silver.

“She must have her  _ phone _ ,” he mutters. Bruce double taps his communicator at his ear and starts to send a call, but he stops himself before he even reaches her contact info. Listening. Selina thinks someone is listening. He can’t, there’s currently no evidence to support her theory. Nothing has shown up in the routine sweeps.

But Selina’s gut is on par with Bruce’s, maybe better at times. And, and Silver’s attendance with Patrick was as far from public knowledge, and the way they made it in and out without leaving evidence behind suggests rehearsals and planning; this wasn’t a spur of the moment job.

“Damn it,” he swears under his breath. He needs to make an apology.

-

Bruce parks in the alley between Selina and Ivy’s buildings. He rests his head against the back of his seat and lets himself sink into the despair that’s been clawing at his throat all night.

Silver. She’s, he doesn't know. He has no lead, no motive aside from the banal, the obvious, and Patrick- he’s fine. He’ll be fine. He trusts Selina enough to know she didn’t lie about bringing him to the Fries’ and more importantly to Victor. If anyone can keep people out it’s him.

He needs to call Alfred, to see if Dick is on his way, to just  _ hear  _ him tell Bruce it’ll be alright.

He tugs the communicator out of his ear and tosses it into the passenger seat. The temptation isn’t stronger than his fear that Selina is right. Police scanners haven’t discussed anyone else missing. No one in the crowd was even  _ robbed _ .

They wanted Patrick, and instead they got Silver. (Maybe got Silver. Just maybe.) With as often as she’s in Bruce’s company the kidnappers would consider her a fine enough substitute for a hostage. Bruce feels like screaming, or maybe crying, or destroying everything in his path, but he doesn’t have one. He’s directionless, and it’s making his chest ache.

By the time he’s more or less composed himself he hears the rev of an engine down the street. He ditches his cowl and some of the exterior pieces of his armor in the passenger seat; he steps out of the Batmobile just in time to watch Dick skid to an unimpressive stop just outside the alley and put a giant dent in an old, rusting out dumpster. Thankfully his motorcycle is more durable than its now warped side.

He pulls off his helmet and tosses it in the general direction before leaping towards Bruce, and he stutters to a stop and pulls off his own mask when he sees Bruce’s exposed face. “Alfred told me-”

Bruce holds up a hand. “You weren’t tailed?” Dick shakes his head. “Remove your communicator.”

“Oh-kay,” he sighs, and tugs it out of his ear. He watches Bruce for guidance, and when he makes a gesture towards the dumpster he tosses it at the wall. It clinks as it impacts the brick and falls to the ground, likely damaged beyond repair. “Holy shit, Bruce, er-”

“Dick I’m not wearing the cowl for a reason.”

“Right, right,” he runs a hand through his hair, breath shuddering as he exhales. “Bruce, I am  _ so  _ sorry, geez, I  _ knew  _ I should have cancelled-”

“Jim would have skinned you,” he teases. It doesn’t land well. “It’s alright, Dick. I wasn’t there either.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help find them.”

“Them,” Bruce repeats. “Right, you don’t know yet.”

“Don’t know?” Dick drops his hands to his sides, unsure what to do with them in his confusion. “Bruce?”

“Selina was able to get Patrick to safety-”

“Selina?”

“-And I’m here to convince her to help us.”

“Right, okay,” he looks up at the window for Selina’s apartment. “Guess we should get up there, huh.”

“ _ I’ll _ be going up there,” Bruce corrects him. “There’s something else I need you to do.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says. He claps a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I need you to do a full sweep of our equipment. Look for parallel channels, irregular wires,  _ anything _ that you personally didn’t wire yourself.” He eyes the Batmobile warily over his shoulder and urges Dick to take a few steps back until he’s nearly on the abandoned street. “Take the Batmobile-”

“You’re letting me  _ drive  _ it!?”

“I need you to check my armor and the dash radio,” Bruce explains, “and I don’t think it will fit in your motorcycle.”

“Yeah, not really,” Dick chuckles weakly. “Bruce, why do you have to convince her to help?”

“Because I was a bit of a jerk,” he says, “and she knows it.”

“Oh.” Dick fidgets with the clasp of his utility belt. “So you think someone is listening to us when we talk.”

“She does,” he tips his head towards Selina’s window, “and I think she’s right.”

“Okay,” Dick reaches out and clasps Bruce’s shoulder back, and pats it a couple times before holding out his hands for the keys. “I guess I  _ won’t  _ keep you posted.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says. He takes a few minutes to remove the rest of his armor and pull on the sweats he keeps in a duffel in the trunk, and then Dick is revving the engine, grinning like an idiot as he sits behind the wheel of the Batmobile. “Drive carefully.”

“Will do!” He whoops, and Bruce takes a few extra steps back as Dick reverses out of the alley and accelerates heading towards the northbound highway.

“Please don’t let him crash,” Bruce whispers, and he shakes his head. Dick should be fine.

He uses the fire escape to climb up to her window, and he’s startled when she’s standing there with a cat in hand. It looks at Bruce with a knowing look that matches its owner’s, and Selina raises one brow while she scratches the cat’s chin.

When he tries the window it opens freely; she noticed him in the alley, not that he was attempting any sort of surprise approach. He climbs inside her apartment and is assaulted with the sounds of at least a dozen cats eating wet food. It’s more than a little unsettling.

“I need to apologize,” he starts, and she sighs tiredly and lets the cat go. “I was rude to you-”

“Are you apologizing because you feel bad about it?” she asks, interrupting, “or because you’re here to ask for help and you don’t think you’ll get it after being a dick.”

“I,” he opens his mouth, and lets it shut. “What do you mean, exact-”

“Do you really think I’d say no to helping you over that?” She rolls her eyes and walks over to a counter. A cat leaps up and bumps its head against her outstretched hand, demanding her to pet it more actively.

“What I said was harsh,” Bruce says.

“But you meant what you said,” Selina counters. She slinks over to him and jabs a finger into his chest; he wishes he had his armor. “You meant every word of it, Bruce.”

She’s not asking, she’s telling. He sucks in a breath and holds it, voice barely above a whisper when he admits, “you’re right.”

“Was that so hard?” she drawls. Her finger drags down his sternum and she shoves him playfully, but he still stumbles. He’s gotten used to Silver’s playfulness, which tends to be a little less physical but still makes his chest feel full and warm. Selina’s always somewhere between a playful pat and a suckerpunch. “I swear if you were any more emotionally constipated you'd implode.”

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, partially just to himself, but Selina will answer, if only just to get a chance to tell him off.

“You’re mad at me,” she says it slowly, as if he needs her to tell him that, “and that  _ sucks,  _ Bruce, but you have a right to be mad, okay? I can work with mad. But if you were walking around, pretending things were just like they used to be,” she trails off, shaking her head. “I can’t do that. It would drive me crazy.”

“So, you  _ want  _ me to be mad.”

“I want you to feel what you’re feeling,” she says. “I’ll work with it, I  _ don’t care _ . This is bigger than you and me, Bruce. The shit you get into always is.”

“Are you mad at me?” he asks. He didn’t mean to.

“I don’t know,” she sighs, “but I’m not pretending things are okay, either. We just don’t have time to deal with that shit while there’s bigger, louder shit screaming at us.”

“Okay,” Bruce nods. Compartmentalizing. He can work with that.


	5. Chapter 4: Silver

Silver wakes to a dark room with a sore neck and goosebumps running down her arms. She sits up slowly, easing tense muscles to cooperate and massaging at the tightness. Nevermind the appearance, she should have worn a coat. Patrick had one, all bundled up safe and warm from the early spring chill.

She fumbles around, feeling for anything in the dark, but her hands just meet cool concrete and mortar seams, and a few small, cold metal grates along the floor. She’s alone, and it’s both a fear and a comfort.

_ Selina _ , she thinks,  _ she got him _ . She hopes that’s a good thing; she has little experience to sway her in either direction. They hardly know each other.

She stands, because she wants to know if she still can, but one of her heels must have broken because she falls, landing hard on the concrete floor and scraping up her hands. She hisses and squints into the dark, hoping to see any signs of injury, but she can hardly make out a vague outline of where her hand should be. There’s no wetness, at least, and nothing feels jammed.

There’s an angry, incandescent buzz above her head and she ducks her face between her knees before the light can blind her. Another sound, a hiss of fumes, comes from the vents. Silver scrambles away from the ones nearest to her, but finds more on the opposite wall. She holds her breath as long as she can, but the fumes outlast her, and as her vision blacks instinct makes her take in a deep breath of whatever it is they’re pumping into her cell.

The light flickers out, back on again, off, on, until it’s half burned itself out; the bulb’s bright, white light is reduced to a hazy orange/grey. The room is bare, but the corners still cast shadows in the dim light.

It’s there that she sees them.

It’s there that she crawls on her hands and knees, shaking her head, hands reaching to stop up the gaping holes in Bruce’s chest, Patrick’s tiny back.

When she pulls them back her hands are wet, dark, there’s screaming in her ears, sharp and loud.

Silver’s throat cracks, and the screaming stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is very short on purpose!  
> I needed to establish things in a ~vague way~ but also, I needed to buy myself time so I'm not late to post in the future. Enjoy! A regular length chapter will be posted Sunday as planned.


	6. Chapter 5: Selina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akdignejdo it was my weekend to work and the main downside is I lose track of what day it is so I remembered I was supposed on like Monday night, so I skipped it to be consistent with the days and but myself some writing time.  
> I didn't actually do that, but I can dream. Enjoy.

“What did Ivy say?” Selina drawls into Bruce's ear. He's driving Dick's motorcycle, and cornering awful fast for someone that wants to get anywhere alive. She digs her nail gloves into the leather across Bruce's chest. “Well?”

“She needs time,” Bruce answers over his shoulder, “so we’ll give it to her. It’s for the best. I’ve kept Jim in the dark long enough.”

Selina looks out at the streets, and more importantly the streetlights still illuminating the corners. “Somehow I don’t think he’s in the office yet.”

“He’ll come if I call,” Bruce says. “He makes time for the things that are important.”

She knew he was going to be hard to work with but she was hoping he’d be a little less insufferable. But of all the times Bruce has been not okay this is probably one of the worst, so if filling the silence with passive aggressive crap makes him feel better then fine, she’ll stay quiet for now and let him get it out of his system.

Doesn’t mean she can’t be pissed at him too. She’s not the one that wasted time running around in the dark alone. She’s not the one that- she sighs. Getting herself worked up won’t help, especially when Bruce is doing a hell of a job on his own.

“We’re meeting on the roof,” Bruce says tersely. She feels a teasing comment about him not wanting to look at her die on her tongue. Probably because he doesn’t, and she takes the hint. Nothing about this is going to be anywhere close to fun, but that’s not what she signed up for.

“He know why we’re meeting?”

Bruce finally glances back, and he grips the handlebars tight enough to make his fancy driving gloves squeak. “I only told him it was urgent. No specifics.”

“Good,” she nods. No way to know just how deep this bug or whatever is until they dig it out. Not that she suspects goody two shoes Gordon of being in on anything that could hurt Bruce.

“You'll have to understand,” Bruce starts, and he glances at her again. He's doing that thing, that worrying thing, like he thinks she'll slug him and be justified in doing so. “I, or anyone else for that matter, that cast aspersions in your direction are only doing so because you were so close to the crime scene before Silver was potentially taken. It's uncanny, which means it's suspicious.”

Yeah, she expected something like this. And he's not going to like the answer. “Ivy told me you- okay look I wouldn't be saying this if Strange wasn't still at large, so don't you even start. Ivy said that sometimes Silver takes Patrick out alone, so I tailed them. A few times.”

“Selina-”

“I told you not to start-”

“This isn't your place,” he hisses. More a snake than a cat.

She rolls her eyes, “fine. I'm sorry,” that she didn't just tell him off sooner, but he's satisfied even if the thing she's sorry about is different that what he thinks he deserves. “Can we just move on to the part where you drag Jim into this?”

“I'm actually insisting he stay out of it,” Bruce counters, and he gets off the bike without acknowledging how Selina's mouth dropped open like a trout.

Selina hurries to kickstand the bike and sprints to catch up with Bruce's loping strides. She clambers up the side of the fire escape in front of Bruce, but he cheats and uses one of his fancy new grappling hooks she's heard about. “Why are you keeping him out of it?” she shouts up, but Bruce is already swinging his legs over the roof edge. She rolls her eyes and finishes her climb, landing just to Bruce's left and dusting some of the flaky rust off her pants. “So, let me get this straight,” she says, dragging Bruce's attention away from the faraway place he went to in his head, “you're benching the guy that helped save your life?”

“He'll want a full investigation, detectives,” Bruce shakes his head. “We have no proof she was actually taken. I never got a ransom.”

“People aren't always kidnapped for money, Bruce,” she says gently.

“I know.” He clenches his hands into fists. “I'll reevaluate after Ivy finds a trail.”

He's making so many mistakes just to hold onto hope. “Bruce, I know you think Patrick was the target,” and she agrees, mostly, “but a body's a body in a ransom, and you and Silver aren't subtle.”

“I care about her,” he says, cryptically, and just above a whisper. There's something else he wants to say, but he holds it in when the roof access door opens. “Sorry for the early hour, Commissioner.”

“I'll live,” Jim grumbles. “Lee made coffee.” He takes a drink of his thermos, and his eyebrows shoot up when he notices Bruce isn't alone. “Selina.”

“He's got a real wild one,” she says casually.

“I'm sure you heard about the attack on the theatre yesterday evening.”

“Yeah,” Jim sighs, scrubbing a hand over his stubble. “Weirdest thing. Quick in and out, nothing reported stolen. Just terror for terror's sake. I'd blame Scarecrow if there was any sign of his MO on the place.”

“Something was taken,” Bruce says carefully. “Silver St Cloud was in attendance with Patrick. They were provided an early admittance due to my,” he flounders a bit, “the Wayne family has maintained our private theatre box since before I was born.”

“Right,” Jim nods reluctantly, “ so you're saying-”

“Someone might have Silver,” Bruce interjects. “She's,” he sighs, “she's missing. Patrick is elsewhere, but safe.”

“Silver's missing,” Jim confirms.

“I haven't gotten a ransom,” Bruce explains, “and there's some evidence to suggest that she may have just ran to find a place to hide.”

“I'm the evidence,” Selina speaks up. “I was there. Sent some of those goons packing.”

“If the men were all incapacitated she may have escaped the theatre undetected. Ivy is locating her trail.”

“Any leads?”

“Nothing beyond conjecture,” Bruce is reluctant to admit. “We can’t rule anything out, Rogue or otherwise.”

“So you came to me because,” he trails off, “why exactly did we meet in person?”

“Selina,” Bruce nods to her, “suspects someone is listening in on my means of communication. Dick is doing a full sweep as we speak.”

“When it rains it pours,” Jim mutters. “So let me guess, you want the lead on this.”

“That is my preference,” Bruce says. “Actually, more accurately I'd like to keep the GCPD uninvolved until we know more details.”

Jim, poor guy really needs a vacation, rubs his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. “Sometimes I regret not screening your calls.” He drops his hand to his side and takes another long drink of his coffee. “Technically, because Silver is an adult, you could claim that she's allowed to go missing. How long has it been?”

“Twelve hours,” Bruce says.

“I'll give you until twenty-four,” he says, snapping his hand up to keep Bruce from complaining, “and then you'll report her missing like a good, average citizen, and I'll get a detective or two looking into it.”

“He'll take it,” Selina says, slapping a hand against Bruce's back. He stumbles and catches himself; guy's a million miles away after getting told no one time. “Better not waste any time, Bruce.”

“Ivy,” Bruce mutters to himself without adding any context. To Jim he says, “if it's a Rogue you're cancelling your investigation. We have an agreement.”

“Fine,” Jim agrees. “I know. Give me solid enough evidence it isn't some average Joe and I'll leave you to it. Not that I won’t spare a few officers if you think they could help.”

“Of course,” Bruce says but doesn’t mean in the slightest.

“Say hi to Lee for me,” Selina says, giving Jim a fake, syruppy smile. He lifts his thermos in a little toast of agreement and leaves the way he came. To Bruce she says, “does it really matter if the GCPD sends out one guy to look into her disappearance?”

“It's a waste of resources,” he says.

“Except it's not, Bruce,” Selina gives him a little shake. “This is a big city. What's so wrong with letting them help?”

“Jim still turns to me for crimes committed by Rogues. Police Academy doesn’t prepare you to deal with them. I’m not sure anything really does.”

Selina purses her lips. “And what if it isn't a Rogue?”

“It's a Rogue.” Bruce doesn't explain, he just hops down onto the fire escape and starts climbing down. Selina uses the outside to climb down after him.

“Bruce,” she calls out to him, but he doesn't turn around. “God damn it, Bruce.” She has to grab his arm and make him stop stalking off somewhere to brood. “If you're so sure it's a Rogue why not tell Gordon that?”

“I don't have evidence,” he glowers down at her. “I have a theory, Selina. One you’ve helped cultivate-”

“I never said it was a Rogue, Bruce. Sure, it could be one of the active Rogues, or maybe Strange. He's still lurking around somewhere,” she mutters, “but don't ignore other possibilities just because you like your idea best.”

“It has to be,” he gasps out, something breaks in his face, and he yanks his arm free and swings it up to cover his mouth. “It has to be.”

“Bruce-”

“If, if you're right,” he gulps in air so hard Selina’s a little worried he’s going to make himself sick. The unnatural calm after isn't better. “If you're right, Selina, then someone was using my communications to target them, but to do that-” he shakes his head- “to do that, they have to know that Bruce- that I'm Batman. That taking one or both of them could influence my decisions greatly.”

Selina catches the flicker of guilt underneath Bruce’s freakout. “So why do you look like it’s your fault?”

“I use the communicators indiscriminately for years,” he admits, pained. “Little things. Check ins, confirming scheduled events,” his eyes widen, “the concert.”

“So, since they knew Bruce wouldn't be there-”

“They knew The Batman wouldn't interfere until it was too late.”

“That still doesn’t make it a Rogue,” Selina points out, but Bruce is neck deep in his theory, and when he’s dug in he’s dug in deep.

“No,” Bruce sighs, “but it means it isn’t Strange. He already has a way to get me under his control without adding in extra variables, things that can go wrong.” Okay, now he’s starting to make some sense. “But I don’t tend to ping on the average criminal’s radar given my agreement with the GCPD. Someone must be planning something, and it’s big,” he’s fading again right after being on a roll, “because they want me too distracted to get involved.”

“So what now?” Selina sighs.

“We get involved anyway,” he says, “and we go to Ivy to see if she’s made any progress.”

-

Selina wishes there was a way to stay on the motorcycle without having to feel the angry puffs of breath Bruce keeps heaving out of his chest. Describing what Selina saw at Ivy’s as a freak out is an understatement of some pretty epic proportions. They’re just lucky Ivy’s still actually trying her whole zen plant mom routine, because the Ivy of a few months ago would have ripped Bruce in half and fed him to her babies.

Bruce doesn’t stop the motorcycle as much as he kind of leaps from it and momentum sends it careening towards the wall, and Selina’s just lucky she was paying attention enough to hop off and land without injury. “So,” she drawls as she straightens from her crouch, watching the front tire still spin as the motorcycle comes to a screeching halt on its side, “you’re really not okay.”

“We’re running out of time,” Bruce growls.

She doesn’t argue because Bruce is a landmine someone's foot has already begun to depress. Whatever cool he thinks he's maintaining he's not, but nothing short of a “time wasting” intervention will make him see that right now.

She follows the stomping through the cave towards his giant wall of computer monitors, where the little bird is ticking away on the keyboard with a headset in one ear. And then she stops when Bruce makes an aborted motion to rip it out of his ear, and instead growls out, “I said we needed radio silence, Dick.”

“Hol-! Bruce, jeez,” Dick wipes a grease covered hand over his forehead and into his hair, leaving dirty, nasty streaks on his skin. “It's not-”

“It is,” Bruce says before the poor kid can finish. Selina strides forward and drags Bruce back a couple steps, and he throws her arm off. Talk about major temper tantrums. “Bruce let him finish, Jesus. Do you think he decided to ignore you for kicks?”

“We-” she covers his mouth with her hand and he mumbles around it, but they're getting somewhere. He doesn't send her flying.

“Go on bird brain,” she tells Dick, who's more than a little shaken.

“Right,” he turns away from them and gestures to the screens. “So I spent a couple hours looking for bugs and didn't find anything. I got all gross under the Batmobile trying to find a GPS or transmitter or something but it's all clean. So then I thought, well, I wondered if we got a virus or something.”

“A virus,” Bruce parrots.

“Right! But not like, a normal one. We sweep for the standards all the time.” He brings up several windows that Selina is not terribly interested in, but she fakes it so Bruce will give Dick a chance. “And I learned a lot from Ed but he’s way better at coding than I am, so I called him in for help.”

He brings up a video chat window and the green machine himself smirks at them all. He’s unkempt and sleepy; being up at the butt crack of dawn will do that to a guy. “Pity we’re not having this conversation under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I take it you were able to find something,” Bruce says to Ed, then he repeats himself into the desk microphone when Ed looks at him with confusion. “Today has been trying.”

“Understandably,” Ed says calmly. It’s throwing Selina a bit, having him be the one that’s chill. “And to answer your question, yes, I have found a certain something. A program, running parallel with your systems.”

Selina leans in to offer her two cents. “You want to dumb that down for some of us, Ed?”

“I was under the impression that I was,” Ed says under his breath. “But alright. Someone was watching the Batcave’s radio frequencies. I’m afraid our technological advancements were to our detriment in this instance.”

“What were they watching?”

“That’s the strange thing,” Ed says slowly. He gestures to Dick, who brings up a notepad full of gibberish. “This is a text only copy of the program I found embedded in your systems. It’s incredibly simple. One function. I’m a funnel, but not for liquid. A-”

“Ears,” Bruce interrupts. “They were listening.”

“They were receiving the frequency to use to listen. Whenever you changed frequencies for safety they knew, and tuned in on their own equipment. Not the easiest riddle topic.” Ed shakes his head. “I’m sure you already guessed this, but I’ll be purging our system here. I trust you’ll do the same.”

“Dick, could you-”

“Already on it!” Dick exclaims. “Sorry.”

“I’m the one that should be sorry. You’re helping a great deal.” Bruce claps a hand on Dick’s shoulder and turns away from the computer. “Be sure to inform the Fries’ to perform a hard reset.”

“Will do.” Dick sends him a two finger salute and turns back to the computer and Ed.

“Bruce,” Ed calls, and he turns back. “I’ve been working on a few theories as to who exactly managed to integrate this program into your system.”

“I’m guessing you have a favorite.”

“I have a question,” he says carefully. Selina watches Bruce’s shoulders as they tense up. “What do you remember from,” he curls up a bit around whatever awkward thing he’s trying to say, “times you weren’t exactly in the driver’s seat, so to speak?”

“You mean Strange,” Bruce clarifies, and Ed nods. “Most everything, though vaguely, like I was watching someone else do those things.”

“Right, then that’s one theory down.” Ed sighs with relief. Selina realizes, belatedly, that he was worried he was the one to add the program to Bruce’s system.

“And the others?”

“It’s incredibly simple,” Ed explains. “Remedial, even, at least for the program itself. Getting it in place was the trickier part by far.”

Bruce breathes in and out like an angry bull, but he sounds calm enough when he talks again. “Does Victor have any experience with programming?”

“I’m not sure,” Ed admits. “Our conversations tend to lean towards the chemistry side of science, though I’m sure if he had the desire he’s intelligent enough to teach himself.”

“Thank you,” he tells Ed, and nods in Dick’s direction. “I need to work on a few more leads. Let me know once the system is safe to use again.”

“Will do,” Dick says, and he turns his focus to the screens. Ed tucks into his own work on his end, and Bruce starts wandering off in a daze, so Selina opts to follow him.

“You know,” she says to get his attention, and Bruce tenses, “I’ve known you a long time, Bruce. Seen you deal with way more than you deserve, but I have never seen you this messed up.”

“Silver is missing,” he says. “Silver was taken.”

“I know that,” she says softly, “but a personal connection has never stopped you from keeping your cool before. You yelled at Dick, Bruce. I seriously thought you were going to deck him.”

“I don’t feel good about that,” he sighs, “or any of this. Everything is falling apart.”

She’s a little worried he’s going to actually cry, but he swallows whatever emotions he’s feeling with a grimace.

“It’s just,” he looks at her, really looks, and whatever he finds gives him enough confidence to admit, “things finally felt like they were the way they were supposed to be.”

“We’ll find her, Bruce.” He nods, but he hasn’t replaced his anger with determination; he just looks lost. “How long did Ivy say it could take to get her plants to find her trail?”

“Too long,” he says, unhelpfully, then, “a day, possibly two. I’m not certain. She was complaining about Silver’s perfume choices and I felt like strangling her, so I had to stop listening.”

“Right,” Selina laughs, and then forces herself to calm. “Bruce, I think I know what will make you feel better.”

-

Bruce accepts the bag of Patrick’s things from Alfred. “We won’t be gone long. Ivy should have answers by the end of the day. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“By all means, sir,” Alfred says curtly. “We can’t have the young master’s safety hanging in uncertainty, when he’s used to such a tame, controlled environment at home.”

“Alfred,” Bruce sighs. “We’re not having this discussion. The Manor is safe.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of the safety of the Manor, Master B, but certain residents leave me wondering whether or not certain areas may have become compromised.”

Selina watches Zsasz, obviously the source of Alfred’s chagrin, as he walks into view. He's holding whatever food he's raided from the pantry, and takes a big bite of what's probably cereal. He waves, and Selina sticks out her tongue.

“I still got it on,” he shouts from the hall, using his spoon to point at his ankle monitor. “Tell Gordon I haven't done anything.”

“I think it may be wise to keep Patrick where he is, Master B,” Alfred says tiredly. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of ours has been attacked in transit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Selina grabs Bruce’s arm and starts steering him towards the waiting car. It’s some boring, beige thing they dragged out of a middle aged guy’s garage, or maybe they just have some discreet models. She just hopes it has a good engine hidden under all that blah. “I’ll keep him out of trouble, Alfred. You can trust me.”

He looks like he wants to say something contrary, but Alfred’s gentleman nature takes over. “Right, Miss Kyle. Drive safely.”

“Yeah, right,” she mutters, and she gives Bruce a gentle shove towards the passenger’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In theory I'll remember to post this Sunday :)


	7. Chapter 6: Bruce

His eyes slip shut just outside the city limits, and he only opens them again when Selina hits a pothole on the dirt road leading to the cabin.

There is a cloud of steam rising from the property, bigger than a simple fire in the fireplace, so thick and hazy it’s blocking out the sun. He runs at the door, slipping on patches of ice, and shoves it so hard the top hinges snap off.

Victor’s there, standing away from the door with his freshly fired freeze gun aloft in one hand. An ice block, warped and uneven, sits in front of him, and as Bruce nears it he can make out two faces still twisted with shock.

He turns towards Bruce with a nonchalance that makes him want to scream.

“You asked me to keep him safe,” he says. A crack appears over Patrick’s cheek.

And he wakes with a start, breathing sharply through his nose. Sitting up straight makes him aware of the crick in his neck he developed from leaning against the window, but it helps to orient himself better.

They’re still a ways away from the cabin, and the sun is starting to set. Selina’s put something jazzy on the radio. She’s driving with one arm, exhibiting a casualness that makes this feel like he’s still in his nightmare.

“Must’ve been a doozy,” she says. She grabs a water bottle from the cup holder and tosses it into his lap. “You were out cold, too. Think we hit a bird about an hour back and you didn’t make a peep.”

He takes a few tentative sips of the water, then gulps down half of the bottle. The deep breaths it forces him to take helps calm his nerves. “How long until we get there?”

“Hour maybe, probably less.” She turns down the music and twists a bit so she’s angled his way. “Didja dream about Silver?”

“Patrick,” he says, a bit raspy. “Victor froze him and Nora.”

Selina sputters. “You know, I’ve known the guy for a long time and that  _ does  _ sound like his MO.”

“I’m not opposed to you driving a bit faster,” he admits, and she presses down on the accelerator.

-

His lingering worries are dashed the moment Nora opens the door to the cabin with Patrick gathered up around her legs. She keeps him from bolting across the walkway towards them but the moment Bruce and Selina are safely across the threshold he tackles his legs with a tiny but fierce hug.

“The cold man made snow!”

“That's very nice, Patrick.” Bruce pats Patrick's head, holds on when the feel of his wild curls calms him. “Where is Victor?”

“The cold man doesn't want to entertain today,” Nora tells them, but she's smiling. “He's in the lab making more of my medication.”

“It looks like it's- Patrick can you go with Selina for a minute?” He goes to coax him along but Patrick bounds over to Selina without any struggle. He's- he's not sure how to feel about that, or her easy smile when Patrick takes her hand and drags her off to the other room.

“Bruce?”

“Nora,” he schools himself into smiling, but she only looks more worried. “You look well.”

“Lee thought so too.”

“That's good,” he hears the flatness and he sighs. “I'm sorry. I am happy for your continued progress, it's just-”

“It's okay, Bruce.” She places a hand on his arm, gives it a squeeze with her dainty hand, but it feels stronger, surer. He wishes he could express how happy he is for her. “Patrick's been asking about you both. You and Silver,” she clarifies. “I didn't know what to tell him. And Victor,” she shrugs, “he never learned how to talk with kids. Not about anything substantial.” She tries to laugh that off, but something crumbles in her expression. “He’s welcome to stay,” she sniffs wetly, but keeps her composure. He envies her. “You'll never get Victor to admit it but he adores Patrick.”

“I'm glad.” More than glad. More than he could ever articulate. “He'll be safest here, I think. With you and Victor.”

“I think it's mostly Victor,” Nora says, good natured but too self deprecating.

“Victor would be lost without you.”

It's not meant to feel so damning, but it is. Nora, for all her improvements and improving health, is still aging, still very much mortal, and Victor  _ will  _ outlive her barring something sacrificial or catastrophic. He clasps his hand over here, which never left his arm, and tries to convey just how sorry he is for having such a knack for bringing down the room.

“I’m sorry.”

“Bruce,” she shakes her head sadly, “you aren't telling me anything I haven't already thought about.” She looks towards the kitchen, which contains the stairs to the basement lab, somewhere between hope and fear that Victor will emerge and hear, or maybe that he's already listening. “I need to finish dinner. Do you need to eat?”

Bruce nods. “After dinner- I need to update the two of you, I plan to, but-”

“Go see Patrick,” she says, smiling, a little tense but still warm. “You have time. Victor’s not going to come up until he's done.”

He finds them in the second bedroom. Selina is stretched out cat-like across the circular rug covering the uneven wooden floor, and Patrick is building a precariously tall stack out of a set of wood blocks from Bruce's childhood. She wags a finger at him and holds up a single finger to keep him quiet, then with an exaggerated sneakiness slides a finger towards the tower until she tips all but the lowest two blocks over.

Patrick's offense is instantaneous, as is Selina's false innocence and shock. “Guess you got to rebuild buddy.”

He does, and she walks two fingers across the rug towards the tower. She's not subtle enough, or maybe she's not trying to be, because Patrick spots her attempted destruction and gasps. “Lina no!”

“Got ourselves an ace detective,” she says, smirking up at Bruce.

“I didn't know we still had those.” He crosses the room and sits cross legged on the perimeter of the rug. Patrick is utilizing the bulk of the blocks, but one that fell out of his reach is within Bruce's. It's old and worn, and smooth to the touch from so many hours of play. He adds it to Patrick's stack and it almost immediately falls over. Patrick is devastated. “Oops.”

They're both banished from helping, or in Selina's case deliberately sabotaging, his tower building project. It doesn't stop her from tugging at the rug edge to gently jostle the blocks. Patrick's demands are not met, so he uses all thirty pounds of his might to make her face the wall; her laughter is infectious. It also gives him a bad taste in his mouth.

-

“Someone has Silver,” he tells Victor and Nora after Patrick's been put to bed. Selina is… elsewhere. He's trying not to dwell on her with one success. “The only reason they don't have Patrick as well is because of Selina.”

“Cat always did get underfoot,” Victor comments dryly. “Leads?”

“Hunches, nothing more. Ivy's network isn't as functional in this weather.” He's not bitter, but his tone is, so he says it again with a more understanding inflection. “It's cold.”

“Really.” Victor glances out the large windows overlooking the side yard off the kitchen. “Didn't notice.”

“Victor,” Nora chides him. He shrugs. “What are you going to do?”

“Find her.” Nora nods. “Your help is appreciated. And not that I expect it, but we wouldn't say no if you wanted to aid us in the rescue, Victor.”

“Pass.” Bruce expected this, and Victor's presence at the cabin makes him comfortable with leaving Patrick here.

“I understand, you've already done more than I could hope for. I'd still recommend keeping communications to a minimum, but Ed and Dick completed a thorough scrubbing of our systems. No one should be listening.”

“But they were,” Nora says. Bruce nods. “Who was it?”

“I don't know yet.”

“I'm guessing you have a theory or two,” Victor muses. He tips his glass mug with questionable contents; it's putting off more steam than Victor, and appears thick and viscous, near frozen. “I'm guessing I'm one of them.”

“Victor.” Nora sighs.

“He’s the one thinking it,” Victor says.

“I'm not sure what I think.” He retrieves his mug of coffee from the side table and takes a sip. “Do you remember breaking in without my or Alfred's knowing?”

“No. Besides, hardly remember how to code at all.” He shrugs. “Only took the intro class.”

“Which worries me. I only have two working theories.” His hands shake enough to slosh a bit of coffee over the side and onto his hand. He pretends to not notice the scalding. “Either Strange managed to get his hands on Dick or Alfred, or some unknown party snuck both in and out of the Batcave without detection.”

Or Selina, but no, she brought Patrick  _ here _ , where he's safe and happy even if he misses his parents. Silver. He misses Silver, surely, based on the frequency of his questions about her.

“Can someone do it from somewhere else?” Nora asks, tentative. Victor pats his hand on her blanket covered knee. “Bruce?”

“I suppose anything is possible.” He almost prefers that option, which compromises his personal network- “I need to speak with Ed.”

-

Briefly, he worries Ed won't answer. It's late, which means for Ed it's early. Too early. Very likely he's still sleeping and won't answer early, but he hardly has time to fret with the edge of the couch cushions before Ed's answering his video call. His bleary half awake state is a stark contrast to Bruce's wired anxiety.

“I'm sorry to call so early.”

Ed blinks a few times and takes a drink from a small espresso mug. “You wouldn't be doing it if it didn't matter,” he sighs, “so here I am. The figurative early bird. Admittedly, I was having a difficult night, hence,” he lifts the espresso mug.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” And to add to it. “This may be upsetting.”

“Try me. I think my tolerance has improved.”

“Your old network,” Bruce pauses, waits for Ed's hand to stop clicking his mug against the side of the dainty saucer it's resting against.

“It was destroyed,” he says. “A certain vocodored vigilante and his felonious feline,” Ed suck is breath, cheeks puffing out a bit as he fumbles, “cohort. That is, you and,” he coughs, “you saw to its removal.”

“Selina is working with me on this,” he says.

“I see.” Ed takes a nervous sip of his espresso. “Why the sudden interest? Despite my best efforts I really did lose contact with the ground force. Scout's honor.”

“You had more than an old PA system and some foot soldiers. Computer systems, electronic locks, you could get in and out of anywhere without setting foot on the premises.”

“Some of us  _ went  _ to school,” he snits, “and paid good,  _ honest  _ money to blowhards and hacks only to watch them struggle to keep up.”

“Ed,” Bruce interrupts him gently. Ed breathes loudly, blowing a stay lock of hair off his forehead. “Did you use programming to hack into the city's systems?”

“Off the record,” Ed laughs to himself, “I suppose you could say that, yes.” He pushes up his glasses with his middle finger. “I  _ used  _ to do that. I was  _ good  _ at it too.”

“Good enough to get into my network?” Ed bites his lower lip. “Ed?”

“I, you said it yourself, Bruce, you  _ remember  _ what he made you do. I. Didn't. Do. That.”

“But your code could,” he says again. “In theory, you could work your way into my communications network.”

“I,” he groans, rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Yes. Yes, I could, but unless you've forgotten our little firebug took care of some loose ends, aka  _ my house _ , and the flames took my secure laptop with it.”

“Unless she took them,” Bruce posits. Ed's mouth drops open, and he snaps it shut. “Strange doesn't need the manpower you had, and we destroyed the PA system.”

“If it's all the same to you I'd rather not hear you say it aloud.” He knocks back the remainder of his espresso with a grimace. “Just understand that a certain theory you may be formulating in your head is certainly plausible, and my totally expected but somewhat uncanny success in ridding your system of the offending program may be supporting evidence to said theory, which will remain unspoken.”

Bruce nods. “You don't tend to drink espresso, do you.”

“Martin set an itinerary,” he smirks. “Early. Gotta stay sharp.”

“ _ There  _ you are,” Bruce hears the telltale thump of a cane off screen, and Ed turns his head to the left and watches Oswald approach until he can place a firm hand on Ed's shoulder. “Who is that?” He leans down, scrunched up face coming into view as he examines Ed's screen. “You realize we have to be awake in two hours, don't you? I will not sit at my own breakfast table and hear discontent because we're behind schedule  _ already _ .”

“In my defense, Bruce called me.”

“Well in  _ his  _ defense you didn't have to answer,” Oswald sighs and turns his attention to Bruce, “although I'm sure you deemed it  _ important _ .”

“Strange may have stolen Ed's code,” Oswald grips Ed's shoulder and squeezes, “and used it to plant a program into my private system that helped him listen in on my conversations.”

“I see, well,” Oswald nods to himself, “anything new to report?”

“No,” he whispers, repeats it louder, “no, Ivy's working on finding the trail.”

“Best of luck,” Oswald says with curt politeness. His tell, the hand that won't leave Ed's shoulder, says something a bit more sincere. “Now, of course we would love to help any way we can but we do have a long day ahead of us. Can't disappoint the boy.”

“Where's he taking you?” Bruce makes a mental note to notify his contacts in the UK, just in case.

“Some library,” Oswald sighs.

Ed clarifies with far more enthusiasm. “Archives. Rare collections. He's set the whole day so we can view the documents at several locations-”

“And yet none of them include a  _ bar _ -”

“He wants to show off,” Ed says plainly.

“So as you can see Ed is very excited and I am,” he sucks in a breath, grimacing, “lovingly supportive of my boy.”

“I won't call unless it's an emergency.”

“I'm sure it won't come to that,” Oswald says with remorse.

-

Bruce snaps awake when small hands start patting his face. Somewhere, someone is making coffee, and Patrick grins down at him when he sees Bruce's eyes are open.

“Cakes.”

“Ca-? Pancakes,” Bruce says under his breath. He can smell the bready, buttery smell from his cramped place on the couch. “I take it you're hungry. Me too.”

“Where Silver?”

Bruce bites the insides of his cheeks. “Gotham,” he says, hoping it's true. “Selina and I are going to find her.”

“Lina,” he repeats, nodding, then a hand offering him a sippy cup of juice distracts him from his woes.

Nora hands Bruce a drink, coffee, still scalding but he ignores the burn down his throat. “Thank you.”

He gets a call mid breakfast, mid bite even, and he must convey the result on his fade because there are two Face's of concern and one of mild interest staring at him when he looks up from his half even food.

“Amusement Mile.”

“Pretty big place,” Selina says. “Lotta buildings, warehouses, abandoned pieces of sh-crap.”

“Crap,” Patrick repeats under his breath, shoving a too big bite into his mouth with his plastic fork. Victor snorts, and Nora shushes him, but Bruce can already see the pieces falling into place. Patrick, kicked out of kindergarten for swearing. Patrick, having to be home schooled because he has the mouth of a sailor. Patrick-

Victor clears his throat. “She say why it stopped?”

“Only that it was abrupt,” Bruce says. “A neutralizing agent, maybe.”

“Sounds like a rogue,” he says, showing actual interest, “Crane, maybe, or at least his recipes. Someone who knows what Ivy can do.”

“Why?” he asks, the dread already building in his chest.

“Two possibilities. He thinks it's fun.” Victor shrugs. “Or it was Strange.”


	8. Chapter 7: Dick

Barbara goes from commenting on the toughness of her spaghetti to asking Dick about patrol so dang fast he about chokes on his water. “Sssh!” He looks over his shoulder at the table behind them. “Babs, jeez, we're in  _ public _ .”

“Oh, come  _ on _ , Dick. Do you really think people care enough to try and listen?”

Dick swallows down his first, and totally correct, response that, yes, people  _ do  _ bother to listen to him, or at least Bruce. Sort of him, too, when he thinks about it. He shivers. “I dunno, Babs. I guess I'm scared your dad's gonna actually send someone to follow us around.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Dick, really, he was just trying to rattle you.” She pulls out her phone. “I need to make a note quick so I remember to tell him that the next time I'm going to be out super late with you. He'll be thrilled to know you're still terrified of him.”

He stabs his fork into his chicken parmesan, not as good as Alfred's but pretty close, and whispers, “I'm supposed to go out tonight, actually. There's an event at the art center.”

“Is  _ that _ why you wanted such an early dinner? I thought dad managed to get to you.”

“Holy crap, just because he did  _ one time _ -”

“So how is it?” She blinks at him innocently, and yeah she's super smart and didn't say what it  _ is _ exactly. Mostly. “Exciting? Thrilling?”

“Terrifying,” he admits. “Scarier than your dad, even.” She snorts. “There's a lot of unknowns. I'm kind of afraid I'll pee myself if someone ever has a gun. That sort of thing.”

She shoves a  _ huge  _ forkful of her pasta into her mouth and talks around it, charming as ever. “So why do it?”

Dick pushes the mess of cheese, bread crumbs, and sauce around on his plate before scooping it up with a piece of thick, buttery garlic bread. He shrugs. “Feels right. Someone has to help people, and Bruce, man, he's burning it at both ends these days.” He takes the bite, chews a little, swallows too soon when he sees the thoughtful look on Barbara's face. “What'd I say?”

“You're an awful decent person, Dick Grayson.”

“Thanks,” he ducks his head when his cheeks heat up.

“Do you ever think about doing something else? Like, I don't know, college?”

“Gosh, I don't know. I didn't apply anywhere, at least. I bet you're getting letters from everywhere. You're way smarter than I am.”

“You're pretty smart yourself, Dick,” she says, slurping the last of her soda trapped between the ice cubes.

“Yeah but I don't know what to  _ do  _ with the stuff I know that isn't, like, fight crime.” He shoves his plate to one side and leans his arms on the table. “I don't want to go unless I know what I'm going to  _ do  _ with a degree, you know?”

“Some people get jobs,” she teases. “I guess you can just be the billionaire brat's billionaire brat.”

“I don't think I should be a Playboy,” he grimaces. “Your dad would kill me, and, you know, you too.”

“Me too?”

“Babs, you can be pretty scary. You learned from an expert.” She tosses her napkin at his face. “I'm just saying, if your dad ever retires I think you got a pretty good shot at his job.”

-

Commissioner Gordon is waiting on the front steps when Dick drops Barbara off after their date, and he crosses his arms while he watches Dick kickstand his motorcycle and take the passenger helmet back.

“Got a license for that thing?” he asks sternly.

Dick swears under his breath. “Yes sir! Full and proper and, oh jeez,” he searches frantically for his wallet, sighing with relief when he finds it in the side zipper pocket of his jacket. “Right here!”

“Dad,” Barbara glares up at him, tone all full of warning and moxie and everything Dick wishes he had right now, “didn't you do this  _ last  _ time?”

“Hm,” He scowls down at Dick. “Go inside Barbara.”

“Dad, seriously?”

His expression softens, not for Dick obviously, but still, it's a good sign. “Your mom needs a hand with the laptop and I was banished.”

“I  _ told  _ you to stop trying to fix computers,” she sighs. “Fine, just don't eat him.”

“No promises,” he says, jokingly, but he's back to stern scary dadmissioner once he remembers Dick is standing on the sidewalk. “Have a nice night?”

Dick sucks in a shaky breath. “Yeah?”

“You're not sure?”

“Jeez, Mr Gordon-”

“Commissioner.”

“Jesus, okay,” he whispers. “It was nice. I um, sir, I have to go get ready for patrol, so if we could table this-”

“Heard anything?”

“Any-? Oh, um, Bruce and Selina got back this afternoon. They're uh, in Amusement Mile. Ivy found a lead, sort of.”

“Sort of?” he repeats.

“It dropped off in the middle of an empty street.” Dick runs a hand through his hair. “I really gotta get going.”

He turns away, but hell will freeze before he doesn't immediately turn around when his name is called. “Dick?” And when he does, the Comm- Mr Gor-  _ Jim _ looks tired. “I know I don't have to say this, but you better take care of yourself out there.”

“I will, sir.”

“Because if there's one thing scarier than me, it's Barbara, and I can only imagine what she would do if anything happened to you.”

He laughs. “Don't I know it.”

-

Between the throng of Gotham socialites and the people desperate to take their photo for the papers (and some less than reputable tabloids), Dick is thankful for his place on the rooftop across the street. Three years isn't near long enough to learn how to blend in at these parties, and even though Bruce may hate the darn things he's got such a good act all ready to go. Even Selina's figured out how to mingle. Dick just fumbles around and hides by the punch bowl or whatever door is closest to the catering.

"Hey Alfred," he whispers into his communicator, "is there supposed to be, I don't know, someone actually doing anything bad? Because unless you count the hat on Mrs Prescott-"

"Sir, I believe Master Bruce is concerned about garden variety muggings and not anything from the remaining Rogue's Gallery."

"Oh, right."

"This particular show includes a charity auction, with several single, one of a kind paintings or sculptures from some of Gotham's most influential artists."

"Ah, gotcha, lots of wallets."

"And several of them quite full. Can't be shown up at a charity event."

"What about the Wayne family?" Dick asks, but he knows the answer. The unveiling was his first time trying contacts and he uh, would rather not think about the specific things he did to humiliate himself.

"What name do you think is on the cornerstone, Master Richard?” Alfred’s being cheeky, and even takes the time to send an article to Dick’s video wristwatch. And, gosh, the article about how he set a  _ contemporary  _ (it was a glorified rug it wasn’t even from another country) tapestry on fire because his vision got all blurry, he was sober he  _ swears _ . “Best of luck, and do be careful to keep your hands away from anything flammable.”

“Holy crap Alfred it was an  _ accident _ .” He doesn’t get a response, but he can hear Alfred laughing before he cuts the communication feed. “Who puts real candles in an  _ art center  _ anyway?”

The crowd in front of the art center thins and the wind starts picking up. Dick pulls his hood up to combat the latter but the former should, in theory, mean he’s going to have an easy night. Nobody’s being shifty, he hasn’t gotten any police feeds courtesy of Alfred, and  _ Jesus it’s getting cold _ . He should’ve let Alfred talk him into wearing the outer coat over his armor.

Dick starts running in place, warming up his tensing muscles in case he  _ really  _ needs to get moving. He lied to Barbara earlier; he isn’t afraid of peeing his pants in fear, he’s terrified of being the next morning’s headline because he died doing something so stupid that the whole city forgoes feeling sorry for his, you know,  _ death  _ in favor of coining the phrase “pulling a Dick” that would persist until the end of time.

And he won’t ever tell her, because she’ll say something about how he’s bad at entendres and “really, Dick, you’d think you’d be less naive about this you’re not  _ fifty _ ," all while trying not to laugh, but if Barbara Gordon is good at everything else in the whole world she’s terrible at hiding it when she’s laughing at someone. He kind of loves her for it.

God, it’s real cold out here. Part of him wishes something would happen.

The rest of him, about ninety percent  _ at least _ , starts swearing when he sees a shady figure in one of the alleys across the street. He’s gotta learn to stop  _ doing  _ that. “Hey, uh, Alfred?” he waits for the acknowledgement, presses his communicator again when he doesn’t get a reply. “Great. Well, we got a garden variety in the alley between the art center and the bank. Gonna get a closer look.”

He leaves the line open and begins the approach, keeping to the rooftops until he needs to cross the street. He doesn’t get how Bruce can do it and make it look so cool when all he does it sprint like his butt is on fire and scurry up the nearest drainpipe. Maybe it’s better when all the buildings are taller, more room to actually use a grappling hook and swing over without worrying about clearance for his feet or getting hung up on the light poles.

The noise of the city covers up his approach; tall, dark, and shady is still crouched by the middle of the alley. But he’s not watching the front like Dick first thought, he’s watching a side door with an ‘employee’s only’ sign bolted to the surface. Dick remembers that door; he used it to sneak away  _ before  _ the tapestry thing and found some of the catering crew and a few patrons all smoking together. They were pretty cool, offered him stuff he  _ did not want  _ but also didn’t heckle him for wanting a little air. He has a feeling this guy won’t offer up the same courtesy.

“Cold night to be hanging around outside,” he says, and the guy snaps his attention up to the roof, and Dick uses the opportunity to drop a smoke bomb before flipping off the roof. “Let me guess, forgot your invite?”

He’s got his respirator on, so the second comment comes out like ‘hiss hiss garble hiss eee?’ but the guy’s not really listening anyway.

Normally he’d just listen for the coughing, but there is none, and it’s not that he wasn’t paying attention but the whole idea is not being able to  _ see _ in the smoke. That’s the whole point. But he can’t have lost the guy, not  _ really _ , not when he should sound like a twenty year smoker. He hears a wet scrape at the same time as Alfred finally coming online, probably got bored waiting for Dick to do something useful and made himself some dinner, and there’s a dull thump


	9. Chapter 8: Bruce

Bruce doesn’t get control of his momentum before it sends him crashing into the roof access door on top of the East Wing of Gotham General. Selina lands behind him, with far more grace and far less noise, but he’s past caring about that.

“I’m staying up here,” she says, and its sharp, cutting through the fog of his thoughts long enough to keep him from barreling into the hospital in full armor. He takes a breath. “In case, you know, this is more than some random thing.”

“Thank you, that’s, thank you.” He hesitates by the door for a beat, two, and he starts tearing off his armor, leaving him in the too thin underthings he wears beneath it. Selina lifts a single brow. She’s unimpressed. “I need you to watch this.”

“No, really,” she sighs, and starts piling his armor to the left of the roof door. “Will you at least leave the boots on? You look ridiculous enough in your little muscle shirt and… way too tight pants.”

“They have to fit under the suit,” he says. “I should go.”

“Bruce,” she calls again, and he waits with one hand on the door, “he’ll be okay.”

“I know.” He hopes, no, she’s right. He knows. “I’ll be right back.”

-

Dick’s hospital room is right next to the stairwell, with large, wide windows on two sides of the room and three familiar faces hovering around his bed. Barbara isn’t paying him any attention, but his attire makes Jim’s eyebrows shoot up and Lee covers her mouth with one hand, hiding her smile.

“I was out,” Bruce says. “He’s-?”

“Fine, Bruce,” Jim says. “Kid’s tough.”

"Like a bird," Dick declares, a little drowsy, and no one has the heart to correct him. Bruce is thankful Selina isn't within earshot.

“Thank you,” Bruce breathes heavily, for the first time in hours. “Thank you, Jim.”

“Thank Alfred,” he says. “He sent the distress signal to the nearest officer. Not really a fan of him being able to tell who that is, but,” he shrugs. “It worked in his favor.”

“And the officer?”

“Brought him here. Notified myself, and I notified a doctor we can trust.” He puts a hand on Lee’s arm. “She took good care of the kid.”

“I’m sorry to drag you away from home,” Bruce mumbles, but he’s grateful.

“I was in the area for my other duties. Paperwork never ends.” She winks, she’s telling him that it’s almost definitely a lie, and he’s so thankful for her, for everything she’s done. He sniffs, and everyone pretends his dignity is still intact, because Jim is saying parting words (and something about a later discussion, he’s not certain) and Lee is moving back to Dick’s bedside with his chart in her hands. Bruce collects himself and stands at the foot. “He has a concussion, some mild bruising and about three stitches.” Dick turns to her, slowly, likely sporting the type headache Bruce is too familiar with, but he’s conscious and that counts for something. “I don’t have to tell you that he needs rest.”

“I’m still,” he gestures to the roof, and bless her heart, Lee understands.

“That’s why I’ve put him under observation for the night." She sends a knowing look Barbara's way. "Bruce Wayne's ward getting attacked outside a highly televised and high security event? He'll be spoiled rotten just to avoid your ire."

"I'm afraid I'll have to direct it towards other parties tonight. We still haven't found the trail."

Lee takes him in, probably not liking what she sees, because she says, "come find me in my office, the little auxiliary one by the nurses station, once you're satisfied Dick's in good hands." Dick snorts out a startled laugh, and Barbara looks so proud of him, a stark contrast to Lee's exasperation. "Children," she sighs, but Bruce can see her starting to smile as she brushes past him.

Bruce pulls up the chair beside Dick's bed, opposite Barbara, and sits heavily. "Tonight isn't going the way I'd planned."

"Aw, shucks Bruce," Barbara mouths the word in mock (and maybe a bit of genuine) horror, "I just got unlucky. Smoke's supposed to work on everybody."

"It wasn't Crane?" Pieces start falling into place. The trail, Dick's attack tonight, and there's sound evidence supporting his work with St-

"Naw, you made me like, memorize what the Rogues look like." Dick blows a raspberry. "Didn't see any straw, Bruce."

"Dick," Barbara says, gently, but she's wavering in her attempt to hold in her laughter, "he has a normal face too, you know."

Dick looks thoughtful and shakes his head. "Nah, guy had dark hair. Kinda long? I dunno, I think he was just homeless or something."

"I'm sure the GCPD will be looking into it," Bruce assures himself, because neither of the teenagers are listening that closely. "You're feeling alright, Dick? As well as you can be, I mean."

"It wasn't like, my favorite night or anything," he fiddles with the wire to his IV, basic fluids for dehydration, and squints down at the twisted mess he's made of it. "Lee helped me with my contacts, but I don't have my glasses."

"Are you in pain?"

"Headache," he flaps a hand up at his head, "and kinda my neck, too. Just sore, mostly. Freaked out." A hand slips into his and he looks bewildered, but Barbara holds on until he gets up to speed. "I'm really tired, too."

"You should rest," Bruce says. Barbara's grown up with a doctor and Jim, a man familiar with getting his hands dirty; she knows how to handle a concussion. "Barbara, here," he reaches for the pouch he does not have and sighs, "wait, sorry. Dick, where is your equipment?" He points with his free hand, indicating an innocuous duffel bag on the counter across the room. Bruce crosses the small space and digs through the contents until he located Dick's communicator. "This is yours tonight. If anything changes here I want to know. I don't know how much anyone has told you, but I can't afford to be idle for too long."

"Just that you're looking for someone," she says, avoiding his eyes. Or, really, just focusing on Dick's. Understandable. "Do you think it's all connected?"

"No," he shakes his head. "No one knew Dick would be there tonight, and it was one homeless man, if Dick's account is accurate." He gives Dick a look of sympathy, surely he'll understand that his word isn't as reliable as it usually is while he's concussed, but he's drowsing, nearly asleep. Bruce's assassination of his reliability unheard. "I think we're just unlucky this week."

"Be careful out there," she says. "Oh, and I'm guessing my dad's lurking out there in the hallway," she grumbles theatrically, "instead of minding his own business."

"I had a hunch," and if he's honest, hoped that would be the case. "Have a good night, Barbara."

"It's gonna be a thrill," she says sarcastically.

-

Jim is outside the room, thumbing through a three month old magazine faster than believable if he wants people to think he's reading anything other than a headline or two, but he tosses it aside when Bruce leaves Dick's room and matches Bruce's stride.

"Any luck out there?"

"Ivy says Amusement Mile," Jim side eyes him, "but not where specifically. By design, we think. Her trail was strong, and then it vanished."

Jim crosses his arms and leans against the wall by the elevators; Bruce presses the button for the first floor and lets him stew. "I don't like this."

"I haven't really been enjoying myself either."

"No, I mean, what's the goal? Unless Dick getting jumped is in any way connected there's been nothing. You don't think-?"

"It's hard to say, but no, I don't believe there's a connection." They step onto the elevator and Bruce leans against the far wall. "Sometimes I don't know what I'm doing, and admitting that feels like a failure."

Jim regards him with more pity than Bruce feels he's earned. "Right now you're walking around in a hospital in your underwear." Underthings. It's an important, and unarrestable, distinction. "Go talk to Lee. You're doing a hell of a lot more than most people."

"I will." He watches Jim press the button for her floor, plus the lobby for himself. "Have you read the report of Dick's incident?"

"Yeah," Jim rubs a thoughtful hand over his mouth, "he wouldn't shut up when he first got in, kept insisting," Jim laughs, "he kept saying the guy looked like you. Guessing he was just scared, thoughts got all jumbled. You know how it is."

"Unfortunately." The elevator door opens and they both step out into the bustling hallway. Bruce, lost in his thoughts, nearly gets run over by a gurney until Jim drags him out of the way by the back of his shirt. He tables the odd observation for now, makes a mental note to ask Dick about the statement once he's rested. "He didn't say anything about my lookalike when I was in the room."

"Probably doesn't remember." A reasonable explanation. Bruce accepts it for now even though he's not fully convinced. "Have you made any progress?"

"No," Bruce sighs. "Although that's somewhat inaccurate, it just feels that way. Like I said, Ivy tracked Silver to Amusement Mile. We're looking for any sign of unusual activity, but we've come up short. Selina's waiting for me so we can continue." He stares out the window overlooking the alley between two of the medical buildings. Part of him feels wrung out too thin, all dried and stiff. "It's going to be a long night."

"Make some time for Lee," Jim says, with a gentle push towards Lee's auxiliary office door. "I need to get back to the office for a couple hours. Busy night for everyone."

"Feel free to inform your detectives about the location." As if Jim wasn't already planning on it the moment he stepped outside.

"Didn't put any on your case," he says. Bruce yanks the door open too hard and it rams into his arm. "Well, that's half true. We have a couple guys on the ground looking at the original incident, seeing if they can piece together a who and a why, but that's a slow front."

"If I think they can help-"

"I know, and my gut won't stop telling me to trust you on this, so," Jim shrugs. "Just keep me posted."

"I will."

-

Lee’s auxiliary office is a glorified closet without the stacks of boxes or supplies. By her own admission she’s hardly ever at Gotham General for more than an hour or two, and Lee possesses the right level of altruism to give up a nice office on the top floor, view of the city and large wood desk cast aside in order to avoid any unnecessary animosity towards her already side-eyed position. Direct contact with the remaining Rogues currently in Arkham, or on the streets unfortunately, tends to make people wary. No one wants another Harley to run amok.

She’s nose deep in the paperwork Bruce was convinced didn’t exist, but the second she looks up she tosses it on top of a precarious pile. “I’m glad you came.”

“You asked me to.” He sits in one of the stiff backed seats to the left of Lee’s desk.

“How are you, Bruce?”

It’s a loaded question, but only as loaded as he wants. He’s the one pulling the trigger. “I’ve been better. I think technically I’ve also been worse.” Once. One time he’s been worse. He closes his eyes and breathes in wet pavement, and when he breathes out he feels Lee’s hand hit his knee, grounding him. “Everything’s falling apart.”

“Dick will be okay,” she says, but based on her pity filled eyes she knows it’s only a drop in the bucket. “You’re doing everything you can. Don’t let anyone, even yourself, tell you otherwise.”

“Jim didn’t put anyone on her case.”

“He trusts you.” She turns her hand over and he takes it, knows he’s probably making her bones creak but he can’t help himself. “You should trust yourself, too. You’ve been doing this for more than a decade. Some things you just know, without any way to explain it to someone on the outside.”

“I don’t know why Selina’s helping me,” he admits, more to the floor than his on and off again therapist.

“That one's easy. She cares for you.”

He’s not sure that’s the answer he wanted. “I need to get back to the search.”

“When you have more time-”

“I’ll come,” he promises. “Once… once this case is closed, I’ll call you.”

“Anytime, and I mean that. Day or night, no matter if you think you’re inconveniencing me. You aren’t,” she adds, “so don’t let silly things like me needing to sleep stop you.”

-

Another, unknown feature of Lee’s office is the lack of signal between the thick cinder block walls, so the moment Bruce exits into the main hall he finds his phone chiming incessantly from multiple calls and texts. He’s only managed to unlock his phone before another restricted call comes through, and he ducks into the alcove between a wheelchair accessible bathroom and the hallway leading to radiology.

“Hello?”

“Ah, finally,” Ed breathes a sigh of relief, “we have a little problem of the _strawman_ variety.”


	10. Chapter 9: Martin

England, the previous morning.

Despite his inability to rouse himself without some sort of calamity, alarm or otherwise, Martin is still the first one awake at the bright an early hour of half past ten. He swears silently at the time, and the further he gets into his morning routine the more the lack of other sounds makes him worry.

They’re already a half hour behind and counting, and neither of his adoptive fathers has even bothered to pretend they’re on their way out the door. It isn’t until Martin is filling the kitchen with the flavorful aromas from Ed’s fancy, custom built espresso machine that the two of them even appear, still stiff and creaking but nonetheless taking advantage of Martin’s more awake state to sate their needs for morning caffeine.

‘We’re late,’ he signs.

Ed blinks blearily and hazards his way through a sloppy reply of, ‘seems so,’ and Martin stamps his foot.

“Martin, darling,” Oswald makes an attempt to cup his cheek but ends up slapping his shoulder. It’s the thought that counts. “An hour, we just need an hour. You can’t expect us to be as chipper as you when it’s so early.”

He gestures to the fancy, old grandfather clock in the living room when it chimes for a quarter to eleven, but Oswald waves him off with a pat to his cheek (he didn’t miss this time, so in theory they’re heading towards wakefulness) and finishes tottering his way over to the espresso.

“We’ll leave soon,” Ed says placatingly.

“But if you don’t want to  _ hover _ ,” Oswald hints, “you could go round the corner, get us a few things Ed will need to make the dinner you’ve been looking forward to.”

‘You don’t have to make excuses,’ Martin starts, but Ed claps his hands over Martin’s and shakes his head once.

“What? What was he saying?” Oswald stamps the end of his cane (sometimes Martin doesn’t know where he picked up his habits until they slap him in the face) and tugs at Ed’s dressing gown. “I told you I  _ tried _ to learn. Martin, you were there,” he was, and it was the saddest thing he’s ever witnessed, “and I have a mind for many things but language has never been one of them.”

“He’s just anxious to get going,” Ed tells Oswald, “so we’ll hurry, hm? It really would help if you could get the groceries,” Ed says, quiet but insistent.

Martin nods, even if he is rolling his eyes. ‘One hour,’ he signs, looking pointedly at Ed. Once Oswald is busy looking elsewhere he makes a lewd gesture he  _ knows  _ Ed understands, because he spittakes his espresso. He leaves the kitchen no more ready to get their day started than before, but feeling smug about having the proverbial last word.

It’s one of those rare, blue sky mornings, with puffy clouds promising shade but none of the characteristic rain. He wants to be  _ inside _ , with cases upon cases of rare collections all around him, the smell of old paper and leather bound tomes filling his nostrils. Oswald is going to take one look at this day and complain about not getting to waste it on some park bench somewhere. It’s not Martin’s fault the stupid pigeons in the park flock to him  _ every time _ . He still doesn’t see how that’s a  _ plus side  _ in the first place.

But there’s this little hole in the wall cafe that opened up a block from the grocer, and if Martin is supposed to kill an hour just because those two don’t know how to be adults and ask for alone time when it’s convenient for all of them then he’s going to use their checkbook to enjoy it.

He’s there often enough, and the wait staff is consistent enough, that they know to wait for his written order. Hand squeezed juice (always a surprise and he’s never been disappointed) and whatever is the newest pastry. He doesn’t ask for the paper, but one slips onto his table near the window when his light breakfast arrives.

Before, growing up outside Gotham, he leapt through hoops to get ahold of the Gazette, but now it’s nice to open up to page two of the local paper and  _ not  _ have Oswald’s face plastered all over the page. He’s not terribly interested in most of the articles, so he directs his focus to a few birds landing and taking off from the iron fence across the street. The pastry is flaky, the juice tart and fresh, and the combination improves his mood greatly.

Ed, bless him, he makes Oswald happy, must have been planning to pawn grocery shopping off on Martin all last night, because he’s left him a series of riddles in lieu of a sensible list. Thankfully, but not for Ed, Martin’s been drooling over tonight’s menu for  _ days  _ now. A commendable effort, but he’ll have to try harder than this to delay Martin’s return.

It’s only been forty-five minutes, but no one asked when he started timing. Besides, an hour is  _ more  _ than generous. They’re just lucky he slept in on accident. Come to think of it, he’s almost certain he set an alarm-

Something snags the sleeve of his coat, just missing the actual meat of his arm, and he’s dragged bodily into the alley between the cafe and someone’s two story apartment. He drops the groceries, sending a can of something or other rolling down the lane.

His assailant is as follows: thin to the point of twig-like, masked (of course), with an odd, burlap, patchworked coat and hood. Not terribly helpful for the police, but Ed’s told him a thing or two about conductivity, the lack of rubber or leather works to his advantage, and Martin uses the taser Oswald insists he carry to send a nasty shock into the assumed male’s side.

The assailant’s recovery is unnaturally swift, and Martin keeps his weapon at the ready. But the masked man scrambles  _ away  _ and not towards Martin, clutching his head with one hand and holding onto the wall with the other. He’s left there alone, breathing fast and harsh, but the man does not return.

Martin has enough awareness to retrieve the can from the street and return it to his bag. Nothing is broken, including himself, just a little hiccup, so he spends the last fifteen minutes he promised Ed slowing his breathing to a normal rate.

-

When he steps into the kitchen Oswald is on him in an instant, still wet hair flinging droplets of water on to Martin's coat. "You're pale," he says, touching Martin's cheeks, "and you're shaking. Are you alright?"

'Fine,' Martin signs, but Oswald only knows thank you and I love you, and only when he's focused.

"Oswald," Ed slides a hand onto his shoulder, "why don't you get ready. We're already late," he glances at Martin, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “I think we’ve made Martin wait around long enough today.”

Oswald is less convinced, but a well practiced pout sent his way makes him drop his (admittedly correct) inquiry for now. There’ll be an inquisition later, he’s  _ sure  _ of it. (He welcomes it, really, because he cares and it’s a good feeling even if 99% of the time it feels unnecessary.) Oswald smooths the collar of the long sleeved shirt under Martin’s sweater and sighs, shaking his head a bit before limping to the table to retrieve his cane, and then the rest of the way through the house to get to the master bedroom.

“You’re really alright?” Ed whispers.

Martin nods, ‘it’s nothing,’ and he gestures to Ed’s shirt. ‘You’re not ready.’

“My routine is a bit more relaxed,” he says, as if he doesn’t spend ten minutes on his hair. “And, you know, we do carry enough influence to, oh, donate generously in order to get a bit of extra time with the materials. If that’s something you desire.”

He shakes his head. ‘Another day.’

-

Theoretically Martin should be enjoying himself; Ed is genuinely impressed by the niche set of knowledge Martin has learned in his studies and Oswald does love to preen about his smart boy, but his heart isn’t in it, and he knows they can both tell.

Ed’s glances linger just a beat too long whenever he turns away from a piece to ask Martin a question. And Oswald, whose interest was never going to be the materials but the chance to see his boy do something he loves, is hovering incessantly. There’s almost never a time where a hand isn’t on his sleeve or pressed against his back. Martin can’t even muster the energy to pretend to be put out by the gesture.

By the time the kitchen is filled with wonderful smells he's feeling less wrung out and tossed aside. Ed continues to chatter in their direction without expecting a reply, and Oswald insists on squeezing the two of them on the loveseat by the largest fireplace to ward of the early evening chill.

And so the memory doesn't fade but the effect on him lessens. He thinks he's being rather convincing, although about a half hour after Oswald has finally given in to his wine aided drowsiness and Ed is nose deep in a new book, Ed suddenly bookmarks his place and sets it aside on the table.

"I'm sorry for the delay," he says, voice tight, like he's been holding this in all day. "Certain, a connection between two, a-"

Martin holds up a hand. He'd rather  _ not  _ discuss their marital life, thank you, not even when it's masked by a riddle. 'Something happened.'

"Something, this morning?"

Martin nods. 'Almost mugged.'

"Oh," he pushes himself out of his chair and uses the arm to maneuver over to the loveseat. "Well, that does explain why my stories didn't hold your attention."

No, but Martin's not going to correct him. 'Don't tell. He'll worry.'

Ed expression screws up, and then softens. "I think he has every right to be if there's some malaligned miscreant mugging people on the streets."

'No, stop-'

"But I won't tell," Ed says. Martin wouldn't call it a promise but it feels like the truth. "Oswald is prone to overreaction when it comes to you."

'You don't say.'

"But you know," Ed sidles closer, "you could tell me. I happen to have some experience in this area."

'I know.' He's seen Ed in action, years ago, but he also sent a file of himself before dragging him across the Atlantic to see Oswald again. It's been worth every second of Oswald's babying. 'A man-'

"Wait," Ed holds up a hand and uses the other to dig around in the small basket to the right of the couch until he pulls out a notepad full of his late night scribbles. He writes some long, cryptic riddle at the top and adds the first bullet point underneath. "A man, got it."

'Tall and skinny.' he watches Ed add the details. 'My height.'

"But not your build?" Martin shakes his head and gestures, 'smaller,' to get his point across. "Noted. And in what is our clandestine criminal clad?" Sometimes Ed makes Martin so, so very tired. "Clothes, Martin."

He holds in the comment about what Oswald must see in Ed, instead signing, 'mask.'

"Well that is unfortunate," Ed grumbles, "but not unexpected. Could be a career criminal like yours truly." Said career criminal made him a personalized crepe the other morning, but that's not important right now. "Anything else noteworthy?" He shakes his notepad for emphasis.

'Hood,' he gestures to his head, 'and coat. Burlap.'

"Hm," Ed taps his pen a few times. "Nothing more? No strange scars? Tattoos? Themes?"

'Not here,' he sighs, meaning not Gotham. He's never been anywhere quite like Gotham.

"It's a start," Ed shrugs. "You're well aware I have an in at the local paper."

'Making crosswords,' he interrupts, smirking at Ed's petulant scowl.

"Yes, but there are  _ other  _ employees, you know. Ones that write about local happenings." He tears off the sheet of paper and folds it thrice before sticking it in his pocket. "I'll see if there's any sort of string of muggings in a nearby neighborhood," and then he trails off, eyes glazing over while he goes somewhere in his head. He's still half gone when he asks, "you're sure it was burlap?"

Martin nods. 'Big patches, rough stitches.'

"Interesting." Ed snaps his attention to Martin. "Show me."

'What?'

"I'll just get my cane," Ed mutters, and stands with some difficulty.

Martin stamps his foot to get Ed's attention. 'What?'

"Gotham may not be so far away after all."

-

Ed stands at the end of the alley Martin was attacked in this morning, two hands on his cane and frowning down at the bare cement between brick and mortar.

"I was hoping for a bit of confirming evidence," he says. "He didn't drop anything?" Martin shakes his head. "Pity he wasn't more  _ sloppy _ ."

Not that he doesn't love a good mystery, but right now Martin would love to just go home and curl up with a good novel of the genre instead of escorting his guardian's husband around the city in the dark. The current picture they're painting makes  _ them  _ look like the criminals.

'Home,' he signs aggressively. Ed waves him off, turning his attention to the ground. He stomps once, 'dad!'

(The more formal one, he needed a good way to keep them unique in his signing but it  _ works _ -)

"Okay," Ed breathes. "Alright, we'll try something different."

-

Martin is ushered to the breakfast nook and made to drink a glass of water while Ed fusses with the kettle. He didn't realise his hands were shaking, but he nearly spills the glass twice.

"I don't want to upset you further," Ed cautions, "but is like to show you some newspaper photos."

Martin shrugs one shoulder, nods, and downs the rest of his water. 'Fine.'

"Steep for five," Ed says, clarifying when he sets the tea timer and a cup in front of Martin. His eyebrows raise, dragging up the corners of his mouth in what is supposed to be an encouraging gesture. Martin dips the chamomile tea bag into the water and flips the little sand timer over, and he watches the grains trickle down into the bottom while Ed makes a ruckus down the hall.

Ed returns with a stack of newspapers and also Oswald, who glues himself to Martin's side so fast that he spills half his tea before he even gets to take a sip. 'Traitor!'

"He followed me," Ed says, shrugging, and I felt inclined to include him.

"You were attacked!?"

'Mugged, almost,' he signs, and Ed whispers the translation in Oswald's ear.

"And you didn't tell me!?"

'Not a big deal,' he signs, but this time Ed doesn't translate. He repeats himself with a harsher inflection, and again Ed keeps it to himself with a guilty lip bite.

"Martin, I think you need to confirm or deny something before I'll make that claim." Ed hands over a newspaper with the headline, 'Crane Crops Congressman's in big, bold letters. "It's from a few years ago, but-"

There he is, some strange, skinny man in a burlap coat with a hood and wearing a mask, brandishing a scythe for a blurry security camera photo. 'Maybe,' he signs, but it's in the man's posture that he really  _ feels  _ like he's back in the alley from this morning. 'Who?'

"Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane," Ed adds, "is a Gotham Rogue. I'm sure you saw headlines growing up." Martin nods, and Oswald's grip on his arm tightens. "I doubt this was a chance encounter. Occam's Razor-"

'I know.' He, too, took a few logic courses in college.

"I'll  _ flay  _ him," Oswald growls, "and I'll string him up in Hyde Park!"

"Please don't," Ed sighs. "In any case, the possibility of his presence is certainly alarming, more so than a garden variety criminal."

"Only if you don't let me do things  _ my  _ way," Oswald snits. He smooths his hands over Martin's cheeks, up into his curls, before nodding to himself. Martin's not sure what he's looking for. It's not like he could have hidden an  _ actual  _ injury from Oswald. "Oh, you should have  _ told  _ me."

"You'd worry," Ed says.

"Of course I'll worry! The boy could have been kidnapped!"

Said "boy" harrumphs and crosses his arms. He signs to Ed, 'taser,' and gestures to his coat, 'because dad (the more familiar, roughly translating to daddy) wouldn't let me leave the house without it.'

"Interesting," Ed marvels to himself. "Oswald, dear," he frees Martin's sleeve by letting Oswald cling to his hands, "I know it's been a few years, but did we ever taser Crane ourselves?"

"What!" Oswald squawks.

"Remember," Ed says louder, "remember, when we, well, when we  _ handled  _ things."

"I do," Oswald hazards. Over his shoulder Ed mouths the forbidden word "Strange" to Martin. "I remember being allowed to do things my way back then."

"That's not the point I'm trying to make, Oswald."

"Fine, I don't remember! You were the one with the baton if I'm not mistaken." Oswald leans his head back against the chair and groans. "We crossed an  _ ocean  _ to leave that disaster behind. Why on  _ Earth _ is it still following us?"

"I don't know," Ed admits, "but I need to make a call."


	11. Chapter 10: Bruce

“Alfred, send me the addresses we compiled of Crane’s last whereabouts.” Bruce leans against the crumbling bricks of the nearest building and closes his eyes. “I’d also appreciate an update from the hospital, if you get a chance.”

“Already completed, sir,” Alfred says clinically. “It seems the boy got a dose of pain medication about ten minutes ago and it rather loopy, so if you’re in need of a bit of cheering up I’m sure the young Miss Gordon would spare his rest for a few minutes of nonsensical conversation. As for your addresses, I’ve sent them to your wrist communicator, but I’m afraid we don’t have a hard address for him ever since the old PharmaGo buildings were cleared out by Misters Cobblepot and Nygma. Some sightings suggest he’s holed up in the warehouse district on the south end of the city.”

“Across town,” Bruce groans under his breath. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll keep the line open in case you hear anything more concrete.”

“Best of luck, sir.”

Selina comes to stand beside him close enough for their arms to bump together, and she leaves the connection intact as she settles against the wall. “So, Scarecrow. Not really what you wanted to hear.”

“We’re not making fast enough progress as it is,” he says to her while he marks off the building they’re leaning against and the one across the street. “We’re only a third of the way through the district.”

“Not your fault every building’s got a few thousand square feet of nonsense,” she huffs. “I thought you said Crane was in on this?”

“I still think so,” Bruce says, “but this complicates matters. I need to confirm whether or not his presence in London is even remotely possible. And then there’s Silver-”

“I’ll keep on that,” she interrupts. He gapes at her as she does a heel turn to stand in front of him. “You got big picture stuff to deal with, Bruce. Crane was with Strange last time those old farts took him down a peg.”

“I’m not asking you to do this,” he says. He doesn’t know what this is, what they are anymore, but he needs her not to feel obligated-

“You think I’d still be out here if I needed you to?” She does that little smirk and tosses her curls out of her face. “You go chase down tall, dark, and patchy and I’ll keep breaking into old factories.”

He feels the urge to tell her to be careful die on his tongue as she takes off at a sprint towards the drainpipe and begins scaling the building across from him.

-

Crane's last known hideout from his solo days is an old, abandoned Halloween warehouse who's customers ranged from kitsch loving, suburban housewives and genuinely scary haunted houses. And then there's Crane, who prefers his set dressings be custom made, and the willingness of the company to help enact his varied schemes is what finally drove it out of business a year ago. Crane's occupation of the basement occurred shortly after the closure, and Bruce has spent his fair share of evenings holding his breath and trying to fight off the initial hallucinations caused by the fear gas. Some nights were more successful than others.

"Alfred, I'm nearing the basement entrance to the factory," Bruce takes a look at the rust covered lock and gives it one solid kick with his heel, and the door swings open. "Is the failsafe online?"

"Charged and ready, sir," Alfred says with a tense clip, "although I'm sure everyone would agree that it's preferred that we don't have to resort to such measures."

"I'll proceed with caution. If Ed is correct and Crane has found his way to London then his hideout should have evidence of abandonment." He enters the dark space, keeping to one side to feel for any traps. "I'll keep the line open."

"Do be careful, Master B."

"I will."

There's a fine layer of dust coating the surfaces in the main warehouse. Shelves lined with rusty metal rebar and decaying Halloween decorations appear undisturbed. If Crane's been in here it was only to observe his hodgepodge collection of spooky paraphernalia and not to terrorize.

The only space that suggests Crane was ever here is a workspace full of heavy metal canisters for storing gas and his cobbled together collection of chemistry implements. Along the wall beside his workspace is a row of tall, wire mesh cages, likely to hold his victims while he prepared. But upon closer inspection the cages have a series of levels and tubes and what appears to be some mildew filled bedding. They're rat cages, enough for a small army.

"Alfred, what do you know about a phobia of rats?"

"Musophobia is one of the most common fears, Master B," Alfred explains. "Remember I cannot see what you see."

"Cages. Enough for," he mentally calculates with the assumption that each cage could house several rats, "a few dozen. Maybe more."

"I'm sure he saw the use of a small rat army for use in his little fear projects," Alfred says dismissively.

"You're probably right." Something about them keeps tugging at his chest. He tables the thought for now. "They're long empty, and the place is coated with dust." He turns away from the cages to exit the building. "What can you tell me about the other hideouts?"

-

Crane's lack of a presence in Gotham doesn't guarantee his absence, but three possible locations later Bruce finds himself interrupting a handful of homeless teenagers as they dig through a dumpster behind a restaurant, but no signs of Crane.

He approaches with purpose, making enough noise to suggest someone is coming near. A small boy, possibly the lookout, whistles, but Bruce is blocking the best means of egress.

"A shelter just outside the Narrows is run by a friend of mine," he says gravely. The kids are skittish, but nothing they're doing is trupy illegal, and a few of them are looking very pale and sickly. Lee’s assistant may be able to get them sorted out, at least for the night. Bruce slips a card from one of the pouches at his waist and hands it to the lookout. "She'll know I sent you her way."

It's up on them to act on the information, but he'll send her a message to expect company just in case.

-

He returns to the Manor the next morning, having not slept the past thirty hours or so, and collapses on the nearest flat, somewhat soft surface for about ten hours of dreamless sleep.

When he wakes it’s getting dark out, but just at the edges. Alfred was kind enough to remove his armor and pile it next to the two person lounge he managed to cram himself on last night.

“Kinda thought you were gonna end up sleeping all night too,” Dick says from his place across the room. He’s underneath an afghan and sipping at a mug of something steamy. “Heck, I can’t say anything. Lee gave me some crazy good prescription pain meds and once it kicks in I’m out.”

Bruce sits up and cracks his neck in two places, groaning when it eases some of the tension all the way down to his shoulders. “I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you got home.”

“You’ve been up for two days,” Dick marvels. “And I know you probably don’t want to talk about it-”

“It’s not going well,” Bruce admits. “Selina is,” he pauses, because he really doesn’t know if she’s still out there, but she was the last time he checked, “helping, while I try to sort out Crane’s involvement.”

“Right,” Dick sighs. He sets the mug down on the end table to his left. “Sorry I can’t do anything from here.”

“You can rest,” Bruce says. “I won’t be doing that again for awhile.”

“Feels like that’s all I’m allowed to do,” Dick jokes, “you know, I think Babs took the keys to my bike.”

“She’s very no-nonsense.”

“You’re telling me.”

“And she’s not wrong. Until Lee clears you for patrol I think it’s best you stay here.”

“Yeah,” Dick squirms in his seat. “So, about that,” he sighs. “I was going to wait until the whole, well until you found Silver but, I think I need a break.”

“Oh,” and when he breathes out it feels like he’s deflating.

“It’s just,” he runs a hand through his hair, “well, like, I don’t know, Bruce. The day that whatever guy clocked me Babs asked me about college and what I wanted to do, and holy hell, I mean, I was real lucky he didn’t do anything _worse_ -”

“I know.” He’s so thankful even though a part of him must not look it right now.

“Yeah, so,” he shrugs, “so when Alfred wasn’t forcing me to take a nap half the day I started looking at majors and I think I might want to do that. Have one, I mean. At college.”

“I don’t know have any experience with that.” If people want to get really technical he never technically finished high school, though his test out equivalency placed him somewhere well past twelfth grade.

“I think I can bumble my way through it.” Dick smiles. “I mean, holy crap, I’ve had to teach myself some pretty complicated stuff down in the Batcave. I think I can handle Chem 101.”

"That's good," Bruce says. It's more than good, it's _great_ , but it still feels like a loss. "What will you study? I don't think you can turn circus performances into a major. Maybe fine arts."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "I dunno, maybe something with forensics or criminology? Criminal psych? I think it would be useful on patrol."

"Oh?" And just like that he feels full again.

"Well, yeah. You didn't think you could keep me away forever did you?" His eyes are drooping, likely from his medication finally kicking in fully. "Might turn in the old colors, though. Try something a little better at blending in." His eyes are closed when he mumbles, "and you can always call me in if it's _real_ important, but this feels important too."

"Your parents would be proud of you."

Dick doesn't hear, having finally given into the drowsiness. Bruce gets up and tips him gently so he won't get a crick in his neck, then returns to his pile of armor and starts gathering the pieces. He has work to do.

-

Alfred catches him before he can leave and forces him to eat something bland and tasteless. Or, it's just bland and tasteless to him, but the bright colors and spicy aroma suggests it should be more than cardboard in his mouth.

His mouth is full when he gets the call, and he answers it without thinking. "'lo."

"Wow, um, that's not really what I expected," a young woman, very familiar, and confirmed to be Barbara Gordon when he mumbles out the ask. "I want to start by saying I know I shouldn't have done this, but when you gave me Dick's communicator I may have," she pauses, "kept it. But just to borrow it!"

"That's a good way to compromise a secure line," he scolds her. He also finishes the bite so he'll sound a bit more serious. He'd honestly expected (and maybe hoped) it was Selina calling.

"I know, Mr Wayne, and I'm really sorry, but I needed a good way to contact you, and I didn't think you'd be easy to reach."

"I'm at home," he says, but if he'd gotten his way ten minutes ago it wouldn't have been true. "Why did you need to contact me?"

Unspoken: why was it so dire that you stole from your boyfriend? Her uneasiness makes it clear she heard his intent. "I didn't pry, but after you left Dick was," she hums, "chatty. He told me about Silver St Cloud, and I'm _so_ sorry, by the way. I mean it. But since he can't help right now I thought maybe I could, just in a different way."

"I'm listening." And in a friendlier tone, "I bet your father would be thrilled if he found out."

"Oh my God, don't remind me. It's just a good thing he's shit at computers." She huffs out a sigh and composes herself. "I used a combination of things. Have you heard of the SafeNeighborhood app?"

"It's on my radar."

"Well, Gotham has _really_ made it their own. There are entire threads dedicated to every active Rogue still in the city." Bruce can hear a few clicks as Barbara uses her computer. "And there's been an uptick that started two days ago."

"Where?" he barely breathes.

"Narrows, some old shipping warehouse on that little rotten pier by the bridge. There's apparently no name on the building, just a bunch of new graffiti, and I confirmed with city records, it's unowned. Last person to lease it was Falcone. Can't get anybody to even look at the place."

Bruce makes a mental note of keeping Barbara's apparent hacking into the city's records to himself, and more importantly away from her father's burning ears. "Does this app have any idea who's behind this?"

"It's under the Scarecrow tag, but people are arguing in the comments. I'd stay out of them if I were you. But when you boil it down the threat is still genuine."

"Send me the address," Bruce says as he stands, "and I'll look into it."

-

He calls Selina from the roof across from Barbara Gordon's lead, a factory that used to can fish caught in the bay and label it as tuna. It also used to launder money, so Bruce can understand the dilapidated state of the east wall and it's obvious slump of the foundation.

He's having a harder time reconciling the graffiti, dozens of laughter surrounding the worst of the wreckage time has wrought, and the insistence of some people claiming Crane is to blame. Surely everyone remembers Valeska? Feels his destruction like an open wound that's still bleeding?

He should have taken Barbara's advice.

"You better not be checking in to see if I'm still searching."

"No." Additional, more appropriate responses don't materialize fast enough to stop, "why did you leave?" from tumbling out of his mouth. The resulting silence makes his ears ring.

The hell of it is, Selina doesn't even sound surprised, just tired. "Bruce, do you really want to do this right now?"

"I miss you," he says, struggling to bite back anything but the anger, "and I needed you."

She sighs heavily. "You didn't need _me_ , Bruce."

"Selina-"

"Stop." And, surprised, he does. "What you needed wasn't something I could give you. And that _sucks_ , Bruce. It sucks a lot, but you know how Patrick is such a little sweetheart? Best kid ever? He wouldn't be that kid if I'd stayed. He'd be miserable and anxious because that's how we'd be around each other."

"That's," not true, is how he wanted to finish his thought, but he can't.

"And then I would have left, and it would have broken both of you."

"It did."

"It didn't break _him_ , Bruce. One out of three was the best we were going to get." She's right, he shouldn't have done this, not without her here in front of him. She feels too far away. "And Silver? She's got what you need, Bruce. She lets you just _be_ _a person_ , and there's no secret extra layer under the parties or the dates. No covert missions. It just _is_. And I don't know how to do that for myself, let alone you. I dunno, maybe in ten years or something, but," she trails off, going too far again before she's back, softer than before, "but you needed it now. You still _do_ , so we're going to get her back, okay? She's doing us both a huge favor."

"Things were easier when we were teenagers." Not that he truly pines for those days, but a small part of him will always miss the simplicity.

"Maybe we were just better at pretending."

Bruce swallows thickly. "I have a lead. Valeska has Silver." He clears his throat and stands, "In the Narrows. I'll send you the address."


	12. Chapter 11: Victor Fries

Victor digs through the bag at the front of their shopping cart to find the baggie of cereal Nora always packs, because there's one group of people that are always less impatient for food than Victor and they're called toddlers. But today he's the one whining, but it's not his fault. They procrastinated getting groceries because of the kid, but they're running on cereal and Victor's stash of freeze dried fruit. They'll manage. If everyone at the local market accepts the cloud of cold air that always seem to develop around Victor then they're going to accept the sudden appearance of a kid that looks nothing like either of them.

"You really can't wait?"

"I can," he says, tossing a single piece up and catching it with his mouth. Patrick is thoroughly impressed, and also opening wide for his own try. "But this is a learning experience. I'm sending this kid home with important life skills." He tosses it at the kid, ignoring Nora's exasperated laughter, and it bounces off his cheek. "This might take a few tries."

"You're going to get us kicked out of the store," she jokes.

Victor tosses a second try and Patrick squeals when it lands in his hair. "Only if he isn't a fast learner."

Turns out the dexterity of a three year old isn't quite up to the tall order of catching food hands free, but he cheers Victor on every time, so in return he lets the kid eat a few handfuls of his cereal. It's the least he can do.

"Don't spoil your dinner," Nora says lightly.

"I've seen him eat," he points to Patrick, who's shoveling cereal into his mouth with both hands.

"At least the clerk isn't glaring at you anymore."

"They weren't glaring." But he doesn't actually know that. Whenever they leave the house he only looks at her. "I don't hate this."

She hums. "Me either."

Because, really, this is a decent impersonation of what he wanted. Sure, there's about a dozen asterisks at the end and the ever looming certainty that things will end someday, but good days exist now and even the bad ones aren't so unbearable. He has a direct line for Lee and that pencil necked puzzle pusher to bounce his thoughts off of pretty much any time day or night.

It feels okay. And even if it didn't it's still more than he deserves.

"Think we could get far if we tried to keep him?"

"Not very," Nora chuckles. "Has it ever worked?"

"Nope," and boy, the things Victor used to try to keep away from Bruce weren't even his kid and he still went ballistic, "but I bet we could borrow him again eventually."

She doesn't need him pointing out the way her smile looks sad, and he doesn't have a sarcastic comment in him that doesn't make him feel shitty. So he bumps his shoulder into her and slips a box of off brand Oreos into the cart while she's "distracted".

“The house will feel too big,” she sighs, but she nudges him back, joking (at least he hopes), “there’s always the neighbors.”

“Pass.” Kids he can do, but other adults with opinions that may differ from his own? Impossible. “You know, Bruce attracts strays like a bowl of milk,” Victor says casually, “so chances are he’ll need to send one our way eventually. Green machine can’t be everyone’s favorite.”

“They do have a bigger house.”

“Not big enough,” he grumbles. “Besides, I’m a delight.”

She laughs so hard she snorts, and draws the attention of the guy behind the meat counter. Victor inclines his head towards the guy and gestures to Patrick, mouthing the word ‘kids’. Patrick is unaware he’s been thrown under the bus, and Nora doesn’t notice, too busy wiping actual tears out of her eyes from laughing too hard.

“If that’s true,” Nora starts to giggle again, but she takes a deep breath, “Victor, then maybe we should start entertaining.”

He doesn’t get the chance to pout before the universe sends them a sign in the form of two of the elderly ladies that live in the town proper. They’re bustling along as fast as their little shuffling feet can carry them, and one whisper/shouts “don’t” in his general direction and gestures with her head towards the back of the store.

Weird.

“Well, you heard the audience,” he mumbles, but now he’s interested. “Take the kid towards the front.”

“Victor,” Nora starts, but one of the young kids that works the back counter comes scurrying by and she snags him with her ultra polite, “excuse me? Is something happening?”

"Uh," he founders verbally and a little bit physically, "just a, a water pipe, ma'am. Yeah, so we need to avoid the back."

"Oh, that's-"

"Want to try again?" Victor comes to stand in front of the kid's path, and he knows he's not exactly imposing but the cooling system gives him a little false definition underneath his clothes. He glances past him for effect. "I don't see any flood."

"Victor."

"It's okay," he tells her softly. To the kid, so named Joshua if it's his name tag, he's considerably less warm. "How about you say it like you told the police."

"I, well I didn't actually," he stammers, gulps, and takes a breath. "Okay, alright, my manager told me I wasn't supposed to make a scene, jeez." He runs his hands up into his hair and leaves them there, tugging, "there's some, some drifter or something. Got a weird mask over his face. He crawled up somewhere in the storage room."

"Okay." He sidesteps and Joshua scurries past. "Nora, I think you should go."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have a little theory," he says, and he taps his temple, "see if you can get some broth on your way out."

"I," she sighs, but Patrick's getting fussy with all the not so subtle commotion going on around him, "shh, it's okay. Victor, just be careful."

"I'll make an effort," he says with a wink. Let her decide which part it's attached to.

And, okay, he's not an idiot. He reaches for the freeze grenade attached to the back of his cooling system's power supply (once he's out of her line of sight) and checks it for damage. Might need a new pin if he doesn't use it, this one's getting a bit stiff, but it'll be a decent threat even in this state.

He knows how touchy people can get about him "being a fugitive" and "carrying around live weapons", so he didn't tell Nora he keeps one handy. Oops. Better for her so she has deniability.

This being a good, tiny, unassuming town everyone's done as the floor manager said and cleared out, leaving Victor alone in the back room full of pallets from today's shipments, many of which are still loaded up with non-perishables. He keeps his gait calm and posture relaxed, and it pays off. Whatever rat's crawled up on to the upper shelves knocks a single box to the floor.

Victor pulls a rolling staircase over to the shelf in question and climbs up until he finds a shadow figure wedged between a bunch of cereal and several large boxes of paper products identical to the one now on the floor. He feels around for his phone without looking away and uses the flashlight to illuminate the masked menace.

"Been awhile, kid," he says softly. Crane's too busy flinching from the light to answer. "I'll be honest, I didn't expect to find you here."

He crosses one leg behind the other and leans forward on the shelf, and it's a good thing there's a wall because Crane would be on the ground with the force he uses to try and back away. "You know, a public place was probably a bad call. You're scaring the locals, and believe me when I say they scare easily." He chuckles. "Guess you'd like that, though."

Crane's going fetal on him, and as much as he'd love to make this not his problem he can't let people dig too deep into the sudden appearance of a Gotham Rogue in a sleepy little town up north. So he does something stupid and climbs up onto the shelf with him, but as a courtesy he puts away the light.

"I don't know if you realize this, but we don't really have the luxury of time here." He doesn't hear the town's one cop car coming just yet but it won't be long now. His college campus was bigger than this place.

He gets in kind of close, breathing his special brand of cold air into the space and making Crane shiver. Victor doesn't touch him, just sits with him, but he keeps one hand ready to stop Crane from jumping either up or past him. Worst case scenario he carries an ice cube to the car and deals with the fallout later.

"He got to you too, right?" If not Strange something sure did. He's a burlap sack of jitters. Jesus, this makes his little stint with creepy nursery rhymes look chill in comparison. "Based on, well, this," he gestures to all of him, "I'm guessing for a lot longer than me."

He's not getting a peep out of the guy, but he's not really trying to either. All he needs to really do is convince him to fuck off into the woods or come with him, and the fact that the first option hasn't happened yet feels like a good chance to squirrel Crane away in his basement.

That… sounds worse than it really is.

"I don't know if you realize this," he approaches delicately, "but we're not really supposed to be up here." Nora would have laughed, but fine. Tough audience. "We should probably get going. Without that," he points to Crane's mask, "unless you want to be caught immediately."

Crane _nearly_ speaks, but it turns into a raspy sort of gurgle. And a head shake, which Victor is in no mood for.

"Look, I don't want to have to use this," he holds up the grenade, "because as much as I hate people I sort of don't hate this town. We're in a cabin up in the woods, nice and spooky. Basically no neighbors. There's a toddler around right now but he's on a short term lease. Guest room's all yours."

Okay, they're getting somewhere. He's all hesitation and wariness but he's scooting off the shelf and, ah there we go, sliding the mask back and- Jesus this kid needs a bath.

"C'mon," he coaxes, and as either a show of good faith or a real stupid move he backs up until he's on the stairs. "You feel like shit, right? I figured out some tricks when I came off it."

-

Getting out the back door and to the car is the easy part. Small town, no alarms, the pokey, roley poley police officer is still taking statements from the little old ladies up front. The hard part is Nora's wide eyed stare and Crane's sudden stiffening at the sight of Others, capital O.

"Just sit up front," Victor whispers to him, and he gives him a gentle nudge towards the door. Nora opens the back and Victor takes the hint and drops to one knee in front of her. "I think we're keeping him."

"Okay?"

"That's the Scarecrow," he adds, glancing up to check on him. He's made it as far as the seat but _very_ tense. "Jonathan Crane."

Nora, bless her heart, doesn't immediately demand he get out of the car and leave them alone. She's putting on a brave face for the kid, who's peering up at the strange, dirty man up front with a precocious awareness of the situation. "Why is he all the way up here?"

Victor glances up again to gauge the level of eavesdropping Crane's doing. The way he's holding his head makes Victor's hurt from the memory, but also means he's probably checked out for the time being.

"Strange, I think." Her expression is a hundred times more favorable now.

"Was it like you?"

"Yeah, but for longer. Kid's a real disaster. Makes me look well adjusted by comparison." He can sympathize. Also, this is _not_ what he had in mind as a Patrick substitute but, unfortunately, he's not really in a position to be picky. And the part of his conscience that decided to survive the emotionless Sahara of his days as a Rogue won't let him let the kid get himself killed while he's this fucked up. "And if he gives us any trouble I'll just freeze him."

"Victor."

"Kidding," but only a little. "I won't pretend he isn't a piece of work."

"But he needs help."

"Oh yeah," Victor nods. "You know how calm, cool, and collected I was?" She smiles sadly. "Yeah, worse by at least twofold."

"You were always cool."

He snorts. "Yeah, okay. We should get out of here before people start asking why we have a homeless guy in the car."

-

Victor watches the scene unfold from his place leaning against the door frame between the mudroom and the kitchen. Nora's cutting up an apple for the little guy for his afternoon snack, and Crane (fresh from a bath and drowning in some of Victor's clothes) is just _standing_ there, watching, with a vague aura of menace around him.

He's got to know Victor will clock him if he actually does anything to Nora that qualifies as aggressive, but this passive scare tactic threads the very small needle of technically not malicious and is, in fact, slightly mean at worst.

And at best, which is the reality, is it's completely ineffective. Nora turns around with her sunshine smile and a plate of apple slices and holds it out for him until he takes it from her. Kid's shock is priceless. Eventually she just sort of steers him towards the table and returns to Patrick's snack.

"He didn't scare you," Victor says. Her smile widens when she turns to him. "I'm impressed."

"I could see him," she says, pointing to the chrome finish on their electric kettle. "He looks so young."

"And yet he's so old," Victor sighs. Not as old as Victor, or how old Nora should be, but he's well past his bumbling teenage years. "I need to make a call."

"I know we need to be careful," she says, always telling Victor what's worrying him before he even knows. "Looks can be deceiving."

"He's killed people." So has Victor, both under the influence and stone cold sober, so to speak, but she knows that already.

He can't believe she can even stand him, let alone love him. Maybe the kid's got a shot here.

"He needs help."

"A lot of it." For this, for that, for the migraine he definitely has. Victor sighs and grabs one of his gloves off the nearby counter. "We can always pawn him off on Bruce."

It's not that he wants to get rid of the kid, but Nora didn't sign up for 'til death' with the guy, and she doesn't need Victor's weird complex to drag her down. Not her fault he feels guilty about leaving him behind.

"He's not always going to be so talkative." She laughs behind her hand, always has been his best audience. "Probably has a migraine. We'll see what surfaces after a few days. Might not be pretty."

"I think you'll be able to help him," she reassures him. Her hand is too warm to stay long but he leans into it until she lets go. She's tense, tired around the edges, but she's not a quitter. "I'm going to go check on Patrick."

"Tell him he's a trooper." He watches her leave, and when tall, dark, and spooky clatters his plate against the table he sighs tiredly and pulls out his phone. "Alfred, hey, connect me to the Bat Boy."

"I believe he's rather preoccupied, Mr Fries, so I'd keep this brief."

"Sure." He makes the safe assumption that Bruce is on the other line after the click. "Got some good news. Crane's at my kitchen table eating some apple slices Nora cut up for him."

He lives for the confused silence. While Bruce tires to comprehend what Victor said he leans the phone away to address Crane. "You can scare solicitors as much as you like but she and the kid are off limits, or I will bring you down into the basement and freeze you." Crane nods, shaky, and holds his head with both hands. Well shit, time to take a gentler approach. No use scaring the kid. "Put your head down. C'mon," he puts his gloved hand on the back of Crane's head, and after testing how hard Victor's holding him there he sighs with relief. "I have one use. Giant ice pack."

"I'm going to need more details," Bruce finally says.

"He showed up in town. Found him in a grocery store stock room." Smelling like _death._  Victor's not sure how he got in and out of the country that way unless he stowed away somewhere. "What's that?"

Crane peeks up at him, and mouths/whispers 'Strange' and Victor nods. He _knows_ , he doesn't need a reminder. "Think our mutual friend might've given him some insider info."

"He didn't know about the cabin."

"We probably talked about it at least once." And even if they didn't he's not really that concerned. Patrick's more threatening than Crane right now. "Look, I won't keep you any longer. He's pretty much out of commission. But you should know Strange is definitely involved."


	13. Chapter 12: Selina

"We're aware."

Selina glares down at the long bearded, smelly prisoner version of Strange sitting in front of them and scoffs. "Not so scary now, huh doctor?"

-

_ The entrance to the warehouse, one hour earlier. _

Selina doesn't know who's more dangerous right now, Valeska with a big, empty warehouse at his disposal, or Bruce when he's being super open and vulnerable right before a big fight, but she needs to bring her A-game to the table tonight. She owes him that much.

He's in his own little world when she gets to the address, and it takes three snaps in front of his face to bring him back to this one. Not really filling her with confidence.

"You okay?"

"No," well, at least he's being honest for once. He accepts her hand when she offers, and she tugs him up to stand. "Valeska has Silver."

"Yeah?" She turns to the space he's staring down and takes in the smattering of laughter written on the walls. "Okay, I believe you there."

She hops down to the next level of the fire escape, but Bruce doesn't follow. "You coming or what?"

He  _ still _ won't come down from his perch, and with an eye roll she knows he can see she climbs back up to stand beside him. "You about done brooding?"

"Selina," oh man, he is all sorts of not okay, but he chokes through it like a champ. "Thank you."

"We haven't gotten her back yet."

"I know, I just," he sighs, "thank you. For everything."

"Yeah, okay, you're welcome," she elbows him in the ribs. "Come on, drama queen. Let's go kick a clown's butt and get your girlfriend."

-

Selina isn't a fan of this newfound subtlety Valeska's trying out. Sure, he can't keep himself away from a good can of spray paint, but the lack of announcement, or any sort of fanfare, has her hairs standing on end.

"Where's the parade?" she whispers.

"I don't like this."

_ Join the club _ , she thinks. "Alfred sent you that blueprint to your fancy watch yet?"

"He's," Bruce stops abruptly; Selina crouches and follows his line of sight to some familiarly dressed goons moving down the dimly lit hallway toward them. God, some Rogues really do never learn.

"Left," Selina mouths to him, and she flicks a rock so it lands behind the men, causing them to turn abruptly with their Billy clubs raised. (Really? Clubs? What  _ century _ is Valeska operating under?) She watches Bruce count down on his fingers, and as he pulls back the last one and makes a fist they both leap from their hiding places, incapacitating the men without raising the alarm. Personally, she prefers a good kick, but Bruce has always been handsy.

God, this really takes her back.

"Does Valeska really think he can take you down with those?"

"No," Bruce shakes his head. He pulls back the grungy, colorful jacket of one man and pulls the nine millimeter out of the waistband of his pants. "I know I don't need to tell you to be careful-"

"So don't," she says. When he looks to her with those big puppy eyes full of concern she shrugs. "I know what we're getting into, Bruce."

"I know. I still want to say it."

"Worrywart." She punches him in the arm, bad plan, she starts massaging her knuckles, "so, Alfred send you the blueprints on that fancy watch of yours?"

-

It's so easy to fall into old habits.

Bruce takes to the low shadows and Selina climbs above. A tiny head nod from Bruce, a little flick of her wrist, and they're taking down goons without having to say a word.

Things were always easiest when they weren't talking.

She's distracted and Bruce needs to take down the guy with a Batarang, but he's distracted enough to miss when someone's on the other side of the door so what it really means is they shouldn't be doing this without backup. There's no way she'll be able to convince Bruce of this, though, so she pretends what it means is that they need to watch each other's backs to get Silver out of this okay.

God, wouldn't that be some stupid poetry, letting the guy get himself killed while trying to save his girlfriend. The old buy the guy a comb but he sold his hair story, but a hell of a lot worse.

She's got to stop working with Ed. He's slipping into her inner monologues too much these days.

"The manager's office should be through these doors," Bruce points out the set of heavy metal doors separating the factory floor from a hallway he's pulled up the blueprints for. "If we're right, the highest concentration of security should be here as well."

“Right.”

“And it’s only fair we continue to split the targets evenly.”

“Uh huh, so what’s your count?”

Bruce smirks. “You first.”

“Six.”

“Counting the guy I took care of for you?”

Cheeky little shit. “You did the  _ first  _ hit. I still had to finish him off.” He stands his ground, literally, the guy squares his shoulders and tries to make himself look taller. “Oh for, fine, you can count him too. What’s that bring you to?”

“Seven.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m certain.” She’s certain he’s  _ not _ . The hell of it is she knows he’d walk he through the whole room just to prove himself right even if he isn’t. “You’ll just have to pick up the slack in the next room.”

Bruce turns towards the double doors and she can’t just leave things like this. “Bruce, wait.”

“You aren’t getting cold feet already, are you?” She can’t be sure what kind of face she’s making, but whatever it is it takes Bruce by surprise. “Selina?”

“It’s just,” she sighs, “never mind.”

“Selina-”

“This doesn’t mean everything’s better,” she snaps. “This,” she gestures to the warehouse, the men, “was always the easy part.”

“I know.”

“And what’s with the dopey smile? It’s creepy.” And on a more serious note, pretty concerning. “Don’t tell me you’re actually happy.”

“I’m not happy,” he says, but his dumbass face hasn’t gotten the memo, “but I didn’t miss just you, Selina. I missed this too.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to kick your butt more often if it makes you feel so good.”

“I believe I was kicking your butt.” Selina snorts. As if. "I think, for the first time all week, I feel hopeful."

"Then let's not waste it."

-

Selina gets the next two through the double doors with a series of blows to the head. Eight. And Bruce just can't follow his own advice and sneaks off into the shadows up ahead to drop his own pair, bringing his total to nine. Showoff.

“The manager’s office is down this way,” Bruce says, indicating the left hall with two fingers.

“Not to kill your momentum or anything,” Selina says as she steps over one of the goons Bruce knocked out, “but for a Joker hideout this place doesn’t exactly scream Valeska.”

Bruce straightens, and after a reluctant scan of the room he nods. “It does lack his usual fanfare. It’s odd.”

“Or Strange,” she offers. “Maybe green and pasty isn’t exactly calling the shots.”

“I’d considered the possibility.” He reaches for something at his belt and pulls off the stick taser. He goes to hand it to her. “I know it’s a lot to ask-”

“It really isn’t,” she coats the fib in sarcasm, because of  _ course  _ it’s hard to taser Bruce but it’s necessary sometimes, and she flips it on to let it crackle in the open air for a couple seconds before securing it on her own belt. “Sometimes you need a good kick in the shorts, or in this case a shock to the neck. Man, you really need to consider a more vulnerable outfit if we’re going to have to keep dealing with Strange every other week.”

"I'll take that under advisement." He eyes the taser at her hip warily, but when their eyes meet again he's all business. "Thank you."

"I haven't done it yet," but she will, and he knows that. "So are we taking advantage of some seriously oversized ductwork or do we have to use the door like a normie?"

-

She'd assumed the thing not sitting right in her guy was the lack of Joker flair to the whole operation. The goons are his men but without the hysteria; the building is graffitied but lacks the usual deadly decor and traps. But something else is lurking beneath the surface that she forgot to consider.

Because another two goons on the other side of the manager's office isn't anything new, but the contents inside, the  _ person _ hidden in the shadows, isn't someone Bruce is ever going to keep his cool around ever again.

She sees the glint of rose colored glasses first, and the second Strange's mouth drops open she tugs the taser off her belt and rushes him, sending a hefty dose of bolts right into his shoulder.

Bruce comes to stand beside her while Strange is still quaking, and she can feel the rage pouring off him like a sick heat.

"I think you should let me handle this," he says the exact thing Selina is  _ not  _ going to do.

"Uh uh, you're in like, the worst headspace right now." Strange transitions from electrical shaking to some pained groans as his body settles. "Why don't you let me do the intro, okay? Just do your best 'I plan to destroy you' face for me." Not like  _ that's _ hard with the very not chill way Bruce is acting. "Perfect, now just shut up for me for like, half a minute."

_ I so get it _ , she thinks. Because everything else felt so mundane and general nothing really connected about why they're here, who's been trying to ruin Bruce life again, until he's right in front of them.

"I'd avoid using any choice phrases right now," she sing songs to Strange, "because right now I'm the only thing keeping him," she points to Bruce's best intimidation face in  _ years _ , "from doing something he might regret letter, and if I'm being honest I don't really care if he will, because I won't. So I’d tell us whatever we want to know."

“Fine, fine,” he holds up one arm, the other stays limp at his side. “There’s no need for violence.”

“You took Silver,” Bruce growls. “Why?”

“Do _I_ look like I’ve been taking anyone?” He leans against the rusty manager’s desk as he circles it, giving them both a better view of his rumpled and dirty clothes, his unkempt beard, his whole scene is really bad when it’s in full view even if the lighting is dim. “That bird obsessed megalomaniac _crippled my_ _arm_. I am locked in an office,” he breathes loudly, “and that _fiend_ has claimed ownership to _my_ lab.”

Selina side-eyes to Bruce. "The door  _ was  _ locked."

"You're claiming that you're the prisoner here," Bruce clarifies with a dangerous edge if Strange is lying. "This implies you're expecting us to  _ help  _ you."

Strange gulps. “I was hoping, to appeal to your better nature-” Bruce rushes him and he shuffle steps back- “I am  _ clearly  _ in no position to argue.”

“You’ll tell us everything,” Bruce says. “No matter what we ask.”

“That is,” he pauses, he’s seeing the near-punch from Bruce too, and he’s been around long enough to know that will  _ hurt _ , “reasonable, is what I was going to say.”

“Even if it gets real personal,” Selina says. Strange boggles at her, but another advancing step from Bruce gets him nodding fast. “I’m gonna have to start brainstorming.”

“So we are in agreement,” Strange urges. “Information, and I go.”

“Information, and you go to Blackgate,” Selina amends, since Bruce isn’t being super helpful except for being a wall of muscle. And he’s the one to side eye her, not Strange, so it’s time to give him a little reality check. “Don’t move.”

Strange holds up his good hand, and Selina drags Bruce away a bit. “Look at me, hey,” she turns his head away from Strange, “I’m here to help, and right now I’m helping you not do something you can’t take back.”

“It would be easy,” Bruce breathes.

“I know,” Selina claps his shoulder, “except living with it wouldn’t be.” Bruce bites his lip. “I know he’s been this spooky, all powerful thing to you for years but he’s just a guy, Bruce,” she glances over at Strange, “and a schlubby one too. Did you see that prisoner's beard?”

“He looks unwell,” Bruce admits.

“Valeska will do that to a guy.”

“What if he’s lying?”

“ _ Then  _ you get to punch him, okay?” He chuffs. “Go on, get some intel. I got your back.”

“Why was Jonathan Crane in Europe?”

Not really the thing she expected him to start with, but it takes Strange by surprise too. He flounders a bit, and after awhile he sits heavily in the creaking, splintery desk chair. “I suppose you could say I got a bit greedy. I, may have bitten off a bit more than I could chew.”

“Valeska.”

“Seems that,” he sighs, “ _ clown  _ is more clever than he lets on.”

“Clearly.” Bruce’s eyebrows aren’t visible but Selina can practically hear him arch one.

“You didn’t answer him,” she warns.

“There are details- fine.” Strange shakes his head. “Impatience. Valeska has become, aware, of my recent work-”

“The hypnosis.”

“ _ All  _ of it.” He lets that detail sink in, and Selina tenses her back leg in case she needs to lunge at Bruce to keep him calm. “He’s decided he’d like it for himself.”

“The phrases,” Bruce murmurs.

“And my technology.”

“And Crane?” Selina huffs.

“Mr Crane has proven, vital, to my operation. His mind is rather, easy to influence.” Strange groans as he tries to adjust his limp arm so it’s bent and resting on his stomach. “I sent him there in secret. To draw attention to my unfortunate situation. If you have qualms with this understand that his instructions were to alert, not harm. I needed you and yours to cooperate.”

Bruce taps his temple and walks away from Strange. “We’re aware.”

Selina steps closer and scoffs. “Not so scary now, huh doctor?”

“Give it time.”

“Wh-” There’s a piercing hiss as a gas starts filling the room- “Bruce!”

He pivots on his heels, “Selina, don’t-!” and he gasps, sucking in a lungful of the gas. His eyes roll back in his head and she rushes to catch him before he brains himself on a nearby table.

She tries to hold her breath, but it just keeps pouring in through the vents. Selina lunges for the door, exhaling the whole way, but when she tries it it’s locked, and sturdier than it looks. Her vision starts blacking out, and she has to take a breath


	14. Chapter 13: Bruce

Bruce wakes alone, in roughly the same prone position he must have fallen into. He taps his communicator to signal Alfred, and by the time he’s pulled himself upright he gets an answer.

“Alfred, what time is it?”

“Oh, thank  _ goodness _ , sir. It’s nearly one in the morning.” Three hours, give or take the time he and Selina spent clearing the rest of the warehouse. Certainly not ideal, but it isn’t the longest he’s ever been knocked out by Crane’s gas. “I understand the necessity of radio silence now and again but-”

“Is it Bruce?” Dick interrupts, just barely audible.

“I can’t imagine who else you think it would be, Master Richard.”

“He should be resting,” Bruce groans as he pops his back into place.

“Believe me, sir, he was, but he’s not the only one that was worried.”

“Sorry.” Bruce scans the room, noting the desk chair that’s been overturned; when he rights it he finds Selina’s whip underneath. “Valeska has Selina. I’m going to get her back.”

“We’ll be here should you need anything, sir.” (“Tell him I’m here too!”) “I suspect he’ll tell me to send you back to bed if I do.”

"I'm saying it now. You need to rest." He surveys the empty room, the lackluster toppling of a couple chairs, and sighs. “Could you patch me through to Victor Fries? I need to finish sweeping the room.”

“Of course sir.”

Altered vents allowed Crane, or in this case Valeska with Crane’s gas, to pump the knock out gas into the room, but the lack of a proper seal around the door and the vents themselves is why it was able to dissipate quickly. Bruce finds little of importance in the desk, unless the old manager is interested in some decade old adverts and a long outdated phonebook. Bruce is partway through cutting through the upholstery of the desk chair to inspect the inner stuffing for residue when Fries answers the call.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Bruce rushes out, “but things aren’t going as planned.”

“You didn’t wake me.” Doubtful, but Fries’ always has a bit of a dreamy, just rolled off the couch tone to his voice. “Found what you’re looking for?”

“Not exactly,” Bruce sighs and lets the chair tip onto its side. It’s not going to tell him anything he doesn’t already know. “I was wondering if you’d gotten any more information out of Crane since we talked last.”

“He’s still neck deep in the migraine stage,” Victor says. Bruce presses a couple fingers into his temple. “I’d ask him what he knows, but he was getting cranky earlier, so I made him lie down to try to sleep.”

Bruce takes in a slow, even breath. “I can never tell when you’re being serious.”

“I’m serious,” Victor assures him, “but I guess I could have said it more seriously. What did you want to know?”

“While in the warehouse we found Strange. He suggested he was being held against his will, although I’m not sure I believe him given the circumstances.”

Victor waits a few beats, “which are?”

“Selina’s missing now.”

“Bummer.”

“Among other things.” He pulls his cowl back far enough to rub at his eyes. “If he wakes ask him about Strange for me.”

“No guarantees. I’ll be awake if you need any of my very narrow but confirmed by an accredited university expertise.”

Bruce smiles for a quarter of a second before the day catches up with him again. “Thank you.”

“Good luck.”

He taps his communicator twice. “Alfred? What can you tell me about the activity in this area over the last couple days?”

-

The fishy smell Bruce was able to ignore before has taken on a rotten, fermented scent, but the hallways leading to the factory floor are devoid of any sort of guard detail unless Valeska’s taken notes from Crane and begun employing rats. They scamper away before Bruce can even think of getting closer.

"You're certain there was a shipment to this location?" He doesn't doubt Alfred's abilities, though the idea of anything arriving at this location that isn't a horde of rats seems unlikely.

"Signed and delivered, sir, to a Mr. S, which is one of the laziest fake names I've ever encountered."

“He’s not trying to hide anything,” Bruce says. “He wanted me to come.”

And he did.

And he’s still not sure it was the right choice, but he knows he’d make it the same way every time.

“Best not keep him waiting, sir.”

“Agreed.”

The thing about the old tuna factory that demands Bruce’s attention the most is the lack of any liquidation efforts by the city after its backroom dealing became public knowledge. Everything leading away from the main office and towards the factory floor is aged and dirty, but relatively intact. Certainly salvageable. Certainly worth selling to someone with more legitimate intent.

“Alfred, there’s no private owner listed?”

“I believe the city holds the deed, whatever that scrap of paper may still be worth.” He hums to himself as he types something. “Seems, ah, there was a single offer sometime after Falcone’s lease ended by a Miss Keane, though it seems the city finally wised up there.”

“And there’s been no attempt at a public sale or demolition.”

“Does seem a bit odd, sir, what with Miss Mooney snatching up everything else on the pier and dolling it up over the years.”

“Things still aren’t making sense,” he mutters. “I’m about to enter the main factory floor. Don’t speak unless I’ve done so first.”

This is not the room of a long shut down, derelict factory.

The only light source is from outside, and it casts long shadows across the second story height catwalk between a series of giant metal vats. There’s a warmth in the room, and a gentle hum of machinery.

Valeska’s been here a lot longer than a few days.

He can forgive Gotham for silently, simultaneously deciding to just not go anywhere near the factory. He’d recommend it, actually, and someday he plans to take his own advice.

“Bats, Bat-boy, Mad-as-a-bat, so sorry the place is such a sty,” Valeska croons down at him from the catwalk. “I’m afraid you’re a bit early for the big show.” He glares, then, and Bruce freezes in place twenty paces from the vats. “It’s rude to show up during dress rehearsal, you know. You’ll give the actors stage fright.”

“You need to let them go, Valeska. I know you have-”

“Ah ah ah! You can’t just jump to the big finale without a little preamble.” Abruptly, two bright, blinding overhead lights snap on, and another set right after that, and another until the entire room is illuminated except for the front of the room where Valeska is standing. Valeska struts forwards and does a little flourish before gesturing to his left.

“To my left we have the lovely, the beautiful, the one and only Silver St Cloud.” Another light snaps on over the vat and Bruce catches his gut reaction to leap up there to get her. She’s dangling above the vat with her hands trussed with thick ropes; the only thing keeping her above the chemicals inside is a menacing hook through a couple of the loops. “And to my right,” the other light snaps on and Selina, tied up similar to Silver, comes into view, “the wily, the irritating, the giant pain in my side Selina Kyle.”

“You need to let them go, Valeska. Safely,” he adds. “We can still do this peacefully.”

“Oh no no, we’re going to play my little game first, Batman. See, I went to an awful lot of trouble recreating my brother’s Venom to be just so, and I’d hate to let a good vat go to waste.” He gestures to them both with wide arms, grinning ear to ear. “You see before you, two lovely ladies, but you can only save one. And you have my word, we’re only giddying up one of these two tonight. Now, who’s it gonna be, Bats? Hm? The lovely debutante-”

“You won’t be dunking anyone tonight,” he demands, taking a step forward and planting his back foot. He can make this work if he’s quick, if he distracts Valeska enough-

“I KNOW IT’S  _ YOU  _ BRUCE.”

He takes a breath, and a second one, and he shifts his weight off his back foot and lifts up his cowl. “I can’t let you hurt them, Jeremiah.”

For a brief moment Valeska stops, grinning easily down at Bruce’s exposed face, and then the menace rolls back into the foreground. “So good of you to finally join the  _ fun _ , Brucey boy. It’s been too long.”

“Why are you doing this?” He gestures, feeling as helpless as he must look. “Why do any of it?”

“Well,” he honest to God chuckles to himself, “see, there was this sweet little birdy whispering- always with the  _ whispering _ \- in my ear out at ol’ Arkham Asylum. Told me all sorts of things about  _ you  _ Bruce.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Told me about this little hobby of yours,” he points to Bruce, to his armor really, “and  _ this  _ one,” he points to Silver, “your little  _ girlfriend _ .”

“And Selina?”

“Can’t have a choice of  _ one _ , Bruce.” He breaks off into a peal of laughter, and it’s during this pause in their back and forth that he gives Selina a longer look. She flicks twists one of her wrists just so until she can grab the hook, and she winks.

She’ll need more time. Thankfully Valeska’s talkative tonight. “What kind of bird?”

“Silly Bruce,” he scoffs. “Never heard the phrase?” He exaggerates the gesture of cupping his ear and tweeting. “Oh, I suppose I forgot your little birdbrained sidekick.”

“Who gave you my communication frequencies?”

“That’s my little secret,” he titters, “but I’ll give you a little hint. Odd fellow. You two go  _ way way _ back.”

He should be impartial, helping people should feel right no matter what the person’s done, but Bruce definitely feels a surge of satisfaction at one of Strange’s plans blowing up in his face so spectacularly. How he looked at Valeska and decided he was a viable option as an ally, or in Strange’s case a subject, Bruce may never know.

“So what do you learn if I choose?” Bruce asks. “You aren’t doing this just for kicks.”

“Let’s call it a fun little experiment,” he cackles. “A chance to  _ really  _ see what makes the Batman tick. C'mon, Bruce, don't leave me hanging."

"Fine." He gives Selina a brief nod and pulls out his grappler, firing it at the support beams and pressing the retract button the second it gets purchase. "I'll choose both."

"WHAT."

It's hard, harder than he'd ever admit, to not turn around and check on Selina. So he throws himself, literally, into getting Silver as far away from danger as possible. He makes contact with the hook holding Silver aloft a bit harder than intended and sends them into a worrying swing. She flexes her fingers helplessly as he loosens the rope keeping her tethered to the hook; it takes a graceful (or possibly stupid and reckless) move to undo the binding and not drop her into the vat of Jerome's serum. His heart is pounding so fast he can feel it in his temples; everything feels muffled and thick.

The weight of Silver in one arm as he uses the other to send them into a gentler swing towards the nearest catwalk helps. And her hair, sweaty and tangled but familiar all the same. And Selina, even though he can’t see her as he lands on the rusty metal floor of the catwalk, because he can tell she’s making a scene from all the hooting and hollering behind him. Her hooting, Jeremiah’s hollering.

There's a loud clang and some undignified squawking; scuffling feet and Selina's triumphant catcalls of "better shut your damn mouth, clown boy," followed by a loud thud.

“Bruce, Br-Bat-”

“It’s okay,” he uses a multipurpose knife to remove the rest of the binds. He smiles at her, because he can, because she looks like hell but he probably does too, and there’s nothing-

“BLOOD MAKES YOU RELATED, LOYALTY MAKES YOU FAMILY."

Inhale, exhale.

“I said  _ shut your damn mouth _ -” a thump.

Silver.

_ Silver _ .

Inhale, exhale.

somewhere dark and empty and still there’s a fog

“Selina!?”

“-phrase, just  _ relax  _ he didn’t give orders-”

Inhale, exhale.

He’s standing no he’s floating no he’s  _ here _

“One of these damn days- blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family.” Inhale, exhale. “Just  _ chill _ , Bruce.”

He can do that.

“Sit, or wait, lie down big guy,” yes of course anything everything, “Silver I’d uh, look the only way is to tase him and it’s going to be ugly.”

He sees curls, and then he sees nothing.

-

Bruce is thrown back into himself, gasping, hands clutching at the armor restricting his breathing. Someone’s hands, more deft than his own trembling ones, starts unbuckling the main piece. They succeed, and he gulps for air until his vision stops swimming.

“Told you it would be ugly-” he sits up abruptly- “woah, easy Bruce. No one’s judging you for getting knocked on your ass from being tased.”

_ Selina _ . He feels his chest constrict. How’d he ever survive without her?

“Bruce?”

He turns to the voice, to  _ Silver _ , and he finally, blissfully sobs as he drags her to his chest.


	15. Epilogue: Bruce

There’s an angry pulse of a pre-headache centered around Bruce’s temples. He’s not thrilled about this being familiar, although given the alternative he’s not exactly complaining. The pot of black tea and a bottle of painkillers will do wonders.

The door to the east sitting room is slightly ajar, and the butter yellow light from inside spills out into the dark hallway. He pushes it open with an elbow and scans the room; Selina’s draped herself across the chaise lounge nearest to the window. When she lifts her head droplets of water drip off her curls and onto the towel around her shoulders.

“You bringing me some of your fussy tea or is that all for you?”

“I have two cups,” he says, raising the tray a fraction before setting it down on the table between the lounge and his favorite armchair. “Whether you want any or not is up to you.”

She thrusts out a demanding hand and he pours her a cup, and then another for himself. “You should just crush some of those up,” she points to the pills, “and use ‘em as sugar. Gonna be feeling this day for awhile.”

“I considered it,” he says, but he just pours one more than the recommended dose into his hand and tosses them into his mouth. “It’s always a migraine. Every time.”

“Sucks.” Bruce nods, and washes the pills down with a gulp of tea. “How’s Silver?”

“Resting, or at least trying to.”

“Surprised you let her out of your sight.”

“She may have called me a creeper.” Selina snorts into her cup and has to set it aside to avoid spilling more of it onto her shirt. “I don’t want her to feel powerless. She’s gotten more than her fair share.”

“So you’re letting her boss you around?” He nods. “I knew you’d wise up one of these days.”

“Thank you.”

“I was hoping it would’ve happened a lot  _ sooner _ -”

“I mean for tonight,” he interrupts. She nods. “And the last few nights. And for tasing me. I still can’t believe I’m saying that-”

“I get it, Bruce.” She picks up her cup and takes a drink. “And it’s not like I wouldn’t do it again, but between you and me it’s getting a little old.”

“If I can just convince everyone that knows the phrases to join me you won’t have to.” He holds his tea up to his nose and breathes in the warm vapors. “Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Well, the hardest person to win over is Strange.” She shrugs. “I could probably knock some sense into him if he’d stop being so damn slippery. There’s really  _ no  _ sign of him?” Bruce shakes his head. “He’s a giant nerd with a bum arm! How far could he get?”

“Far enough.” Bruce takes a drink, another, and sets the cup aside so he can rub at his temples. “He’s running out of resources. And allies.”

“So when’s the big manhunt to bring him in?”

Bruce tips back until his head is resting on the stiff back of his chair. If he does it just right the pressure helps relieve a bit of the pounding in his head, enough to let him think. “I don’t think there will be one.” Selina sits up and tips her head to one side. She thinks he’s lost it. “He’s losing allies, willing and not. His mobility is restricted because of Oswald and Ed’s decision to intervene themselves. The greatest threat he can be is if he gets a really big speaker and puts it on the lawn.”

“I feel like you’re missing a few things, but okay.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“I just think it doesn’t have to be this big, boisterous effort to bring him in. Maybe sometimes we can let the threat just fizzle out on its own. Less risk for the same reward.”

“Wow, this migraine is really messing with your head.”

“I’m just so tired,” he sighs. “Just this once I’d really like it if something just solved itself without me having to stay up for two days to push it along.”

“So you really don’t want to hunt him down?”

“Not everything has to have an action packed climax. Some things just,” he sighs, “some things just end. And maybe it’s better that way.”

He closes his eyes again, just for a bit. He listens, too, and savors the quiet way Selina can’t seem to sit still even now. Little shifts of fabric, the tinkling of her teacup as she continues to set it down and pick it back up. That one is a bit less charming and a bit more like a drill bit at his temple, but it’s still very much Selina, and that makes it tolerable.

“I didn’t get it before.”

“What’s that?” She definitely heard him, and she’s offering him an out.

He’s done dancing around this.

“When you left, I was angry.” He peeks one eye open, and sits up properly when he finds Selina giving him her rapt attention. “And later, I told myself I understood. I didn’t, but I do now.”

“Thanks?”

“I’m just,” he pauses, mulls this one over a bit, “I’m just trying to say I forgive you. You don’t have to apologize, actually  _ I  _ should apologize-”

“Oh really?”

“For not listening.” For many things. “I am sorry for that.” She nods. “I would like it if you were around more often.”

“Bruce-”

“I’m not asking you to move in,” he says, “but Patrick adores you. He adores Silver too, but he has a big heart. He can manage.” She’s giving him a look. “And, and I wouldn’t be upset if you at least said hello every once and awhile. I miss you.”

“I guess I could pencil you in,” she teases. There’s a warmth there, too. It’s low and steady. Love, but not the forest fire that threatens to engulf him when Silver walks in the room. “And it’s not like I don’t miss you, too, Bruce. Or the little twerp. Sometimes it’s still just weird for me.”

“Me too.”

“I mean, we have a  _ kid _ . He says  _ words _ now. It’s crazy.”

Bruce laughs, even though it hurts. “You fought a man that calls himself the Joker, and the weird thing for you is the fact that our toddler is meeting all his developmental milestones.”

“I’m just saying,” she trails off when the door opens, and said toddler comes bounding into the room like a tiny tornado, with a very tired, dressed down, but pleased looking Silver in his destructive wake. Patrick leaps up into Selina’s lap and starts regaling her with tales of “the cold guy” and his new friend, “the scary one”.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Bruce whispers to Silver. She cups a hand against his cheek and uses the other to massage his temple.

“Alfred just got back,” she says lightly, a bit tense but smiling, and she teases a bit of Bruce’s hair with a finger. “Patrick was adamant he see me himself. I thought I’d give Alfred a break since he had to listen to him the whole way back. Didn’t sleep a wink.”

“And Crane?”

“At the cabin,” she says, bemused. She’s watching Selina nod seriously as Patrick tells her about some sort of snack Nora makes, and demanding it be made here as well. “I guess Victor gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Solitude?”

“How’d you know?” she laughs lightly, just once. “I guess you could always override him.”

“It,” he hums as she finds  _ just  _ the right spot to ease a bit of the tension in his head, “actually, it might be better this way. Fries has more experience coming down from long term control than I do. And their personalities aren’t,” he pauses, “dissimilar.”

“You mean they’re antisocial.”

“Putting it kindly, yes.” He sighs. “I love you. Can we find a good excuse to leave the country for a few weeks? I think I could benefit from a vacation.”

-

_ One month later _

Bruce hooks the end of his grappler to the brick wall around the roof of the cannery and slowly rappels down to the street below. Jim meets him there, breathing heavily from his race down the fire escape, and he glares at Bruce and his low-effort method of descent.

“I can’t exactly carry you down with me, Gordon.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to show off.” He scans the alley, but the perp is long gone. “Damn. Really thought we’d flush them out this time.”

“I still can’t fathom what they want with canning equipment,” Bruce admits.

“In this city it could be anything,” he shakes his head. “The Can Man, now  _ that’s  _ a villain that would get me to retire and move away.”

“Me too.”

“I just can’t-hey!” Jim takes off into a sprint, and Bruce is quick to follow his cry of, “GCPD!”

He finds Jim, not with an escaped Rogue, or the Can Man (which will haunt Bruce for a few days easy), but with a young man, younger than Dick, who’s frozen in fear with a crowbar in one hand and one of the Batmobile’s hubcaps in the other.

He’s not sure how to proceed. It’s just, it’s more comical than he expected.

“Oh shit,” the kid drops both his objects and raises his hands high in the air. “I uh, listen, it’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh yeah?” Jim nods back at Bruce. “You think anyone aside from this guy drives a car like that in this city?”

He mouths, “oh fuck,” and Jesus, this kid is  _ young _ . And he looks like he’s been sleeping rough. “Really, just a, uh-”

“Training,” Bruce blurts out. He stares down the kid, who’s already stunned into silence without any extra intimidation.

Jim sighs tiredly. “Training?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t tell me you got another one,” he mutters. “Were you going to tell me you took in another teenager?”

“Eventually.” He just keeps answering; he doesn't know how to stop himself. “And now I have.”

“Right,” Jim side-eyes the young man. “Gonna tell me a name, or-”

“Jason,” comes tumbling out of the kid’s mouth. “Jason Todd. Uh, Bat Jr-”

“Robin.”

“That one.”

“It’s still preliminary,” Bruce explains.

“Uh huh.” Jim sucks at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, well, I need to write up a report for tonight. Should I be leaving this part out, or-?”

“That would be appreciated.”

“Right. Uh, nice meeting you, Jason,” Jim offers a hand, and Jason finally realizes he’s left his raised the entire time. He rubs a hand over one red cheek and uses the other to reciprocate Jim’s greeting. “Might want to work on your stealth.”

“Yep.” Jason shoves his hands in his pockets, and he and Bruce watch Jim until he’s exited the alley and the sound of a car engine breaks the relative silence of the city. “So, uh, thanks for not like, kicking my ass or anything. Really, didn’t mean to mess with your ride-”

“Jason,” Bruce stops him, “get in.”

“Oh fuck, really?” Bruce doesn’t say a word, just continues to stare until Jason walks around the front of the Batmobile and gets into the passenger seat.

He picks up the hubcap and examines the edge. If it wasn’t such a questionable act he’d offer some praise; Jason’s managed to remove it without damaging the surface. Definitely a bonus when he was undoubtedly trying to steal them for a bit of cash. He opens up the driver’s side door and tosses it into the back seat before sliding inside and starting the engine.

They say nothing for the first minute, but Jason’s lack of stealth makes itself known once again, because even if he’s trying to hide it the bright flashes of his phone screen are hard to miss at this late hour. “Who are you texting?”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” he snaps, shoving his phone further under his leg. Bruce holds out a hand, and after a bit of stewing Jason hands it over.

He’s not lying. Jason’s tweeted a single, mess of a sentence to what appears to be about twenty-three followers: ‘send help kidnapped by bat man’. No one appears to have found this very funny, or believable.

“Really?”

“Well, what would  _ you  _ call this?” He snatches his phone back and messes with one of the roughed up edges of his phone case. “Um, what  _ would  _ you call this, exactly?”

“Are you staying at any of the shelters in town?” Jason gapes at him, speechless. Bruce has a feeling this is a rare moment and takes advantage. “You tried to steal the hubcaps off the Batmobile. I can’t imagine a lot of gainfully employed adults trying that just for kicks.”

“I didn’t  _ know _ , okay? It was a nice car in a shitty neighborhood. I don’t know why you thought it would still have hubcaps anyway.”

“Because it’s the  _ Batmobile _ .” Jason grumbles, but doesn’t have any response. “Where are your parents?”

Jason shrugs one shoulder. “They’re not around.”

“I see.” And he’s not going to press, not just yet. “And no one is looking after you?”

“Hell no,” Jason scoffs. “I’m  _ fine _ , by the way. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not saying you can’t,” though he might be thinking it. “This is not me condoning your actions,” Bruce cautions, “but I am admitting that it does take a certain set of knowledge and skill to remove hubcaps without causing damage-”

“Sure  _ sounds  _ like you’re condoning my actions.”

“I’m not.” He is, however, somewhat impressed. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the position of Robin has been vacant these last couple of months.”

“I mean, sure I guess. The whole city can’t shut up about you two.” Jason pauses a beat, two. “Wait, why are you asking?”

“I think you have an untapped potential,” Bruce explains, “and we could hone your skills. Do you know how to fight?”

“Do  _ I  _ know how to fight? Like, street fighting?”

“I was thinking more hand to hand combat, self defense,” Bruce shrugs. “But I suppose everyone’s style is different.”

“So are you, is this,” Jason takes in a deep breath, “are you asking if I want to be Robin?”

“Yes.” Jason makes a strangled, gurgling sound in the back of his throat. “Granted, I’m going to ask you stop stealing things-”

“Shit, oh  _ fuck _ -”

“-and if you’re going to be a public figure you should probably cut down on the swearing.”

“You want me to be  _ Robin _ ? Like,  _ your sidekick _ ?”

“I’d like to give it a try,” Bruce says. “At the very least, I can’t condone leaving a delinquent on the streets. You  _ did  _ try to steal my hubcaps.” When Jason looks sheepish he winks, and the wild enthusiasm is back. He’s about to vibrate out of his seat. “And another thing, we are never admitting to Jim Gordon that this was not planned.”

“Uh, yeah, duh,” Jason laughs. “I mean, fu-crap.” Close enough. “I’m not tossing this out for a  _ laugh _ .”

“That’s good to hear.”

Jason slaps his hands against the passenger seat. He’s bouncing a bit, flying so high that they may have to wait a day or two before they start training properly, just in case he can’t actually cut it in a fight. Bruce isn’t opposed to having another hand in the Batcave at the very least, and Jason is certainly  _ eager _ .

“If there’s anywhere you have something stashed we’ll get it tomorrow,” Bruce explains as he activates the back door to the Batcave. “Tonight I thought it would be good to get you a good meal, some clean clothes, and to introduce myself properly.” Once he’s parked he pulls back his cowl and holds out a hand. “I’m Bruce Wayne.”

“Holy FUCK!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I uh, finally freaking finished this story. Thanks to everyone that did stick around, the messages that kept this on my radar, etc etc. I know it's taken ages to turn out what is essentially Sitting and Talking but I'm pretty content with how this whole beast has turned out.
> 
> I have some one-shots I've completed ages ago for this universe that chronologically take place after this story. I'll post them one a day until they're all up, and then I'll sadly probably say goodbye to this universe. I've had a lot of fun writing it, but my motivation severely tanked and it was a struggle to just get this one out. I am happy I finished this one, at least.
> 
> Keep in mind, I'll leave the series "unfinished" because if I'm ever struck with inspiration I'll probably write another single shot, but I think my days of long fic for Gotham/Batman are pretty much done for now.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> (P.S. If you're looking for some updates on Imprints and Thumbprints I'm going to try and make that my main focus now that this one is done)


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